Caliber
by KathainBowen
Summary: Earth is a dead world, culled and brought to its knees by the Wraith. But when one comes calling three years later with the offer to help Sheppard and Ronon find McKay alive in what *used* to be America, it is an offer they cannot refuse.
1. Former and Future Foe

**CALIBER - Former and Future Foe**

There are, without a shadow of doubt, an absolutely infinite number of variations of ways to die, to expire. There is, however, four basic methods of burial. By earth, in which the last remains are interred in either a coffin or a tomb of some kind. By water, in which the body is cast into the sea or in which ashes are spread to the water. By fire, in which the body is burnt to nothing but a fine ash and burnt again and again until only the memory and faint carbon traces remain. The fourth method is seldom heard of; sky burial.

Colonel Steven Caldwell has never considered his burial options even when faced with all manners of unsavory predicaments until now, when it seems he has no other option. The Wraith are crippling the _Daedalus _right out from underneath him. He has beamed as many out as possible, but the ship is coming apart and even Hermiod's great skill cannot keep her airborne for much longer. They cannot even beam themselves out now to the safety of the planet below.

Caldwell turns to the Asgard who, despite the gravity of the situation and the sparks flying about him, seems unearthly calm and composed, befitting his people. Hermiod dips his head to Caldwell but says nothing. There is nothing to say, and nothing they can do so badly outnumbered and outgunned. Not anymore. It is a simple act of both respect and acceptance.

Caldwell sighs, looking to the blue and green sphere below and the hive ships circling about them before easing into his seat. The chair feels so familiar and comforting. He could have died in any other way. At home from a heart attack or in the field from a gun shot wound. No matter what the means, this just feels right. Caldwell gazes intently to the hive ship turning towards them, knowing this is it; this is the end. He will die with his boots on, at the helm of this, the _Daedalus_, his ship, his life. And his burial will be a grand sky burial the likes of which no one on the planet below has ever or will ever see again.

It is Colonel Steven Caldwell's last gift when he smiles to himself. "Hermiod?"

"Yes?"

Caldwell closes his eyes for a moment. "It's been a pleasure working with you."

The Asgard blinks strangely before continuing to work at the controls and keep the _Daedalus _aloft for just a few more seconds. "And you."

Caldwell grins to himself even as the ship's drive kicks to life. It is a fitting burial for his life and for this end as the _Daedalus _cuts through the night and the air, screaming through the hive ship with a wrenching of metal upon organic structure. Both ships burst into a massive fireball, licking out at the night. The _Daedalus _explodes in a rain of shrapnel that flickers in the night before sliding through the atmosphere to flare and burn up to nothingness along with remnants from the hive.

When Colonel Steven Caldwell and Hermiod are gone, they remain, as stardust endlessly sprinkled in the heavens. It is a grander funeral than any other, even if none of the witnesses below knew what it was. Their remains will dance across Earth's heavens for the rest of time, even if their sacrifice does not change anything.

xxxx

A singular figure stands upon the lip of the ridge, staring down at the wide river snaking languidly between the jagged mountains and towards the sea. It is a solitary man, alone in a barren, empty world, seated astride a stocky, ruddy looking horse. He is waiting. He has been waiting for a long time now, far too long, but he can wait a bit longer.

The mountains about him are awash in a splash of vibrant colors. However, sentiment does not become this man, leaving no passing appreciation or wistful dreams of the fiery scarlets and blazing oranges that blanket the trees upon the ridge face. He does not see the exquisite, wild beauty to the fall display. His mind is churning on two entirely dissimilar veins, but neither is so foolish or childishly naive to be entranced by the dazzling array. The scientist in him - which he occasionally fancies as quite dead and gone - rears its head in a rare display of brief and rather dispassionate recognition of the phenomena, attributing the kaleidoscope of color somewhat callously to the seasonal decay of chlorophyll and other pigments in the leave due to the coming surge of winter's cold. The scientist drones on in the back of his consciousness about subtractive and additive color systems before being quickly banished back to man's mind.

Simultaneously, the survivor in him is torn between between savoring the creeping cold and fearing it. The winter is coming, and it will be a long, hard one, the man knows. He knows it not by portents and signs, nor by almanacs and arthritic pain flaring up; these pathetic fancies have no place in the real world anymore. The man knows it by the chill in the air and the all too heavy evidence around him.

As if to emphasize the point, a bitter cold wind caresses his cheek with a frosty kiss, sending both delicious and horrible shivers down his spine. The nights were growing longer and longer, and the air colder, almost by the minute. The rocks and leaves have sparkled with frost for weeks now, and morning had greeted him with ice upon the sides of the road. Oh yes, the winter fast approaches, heralding the security of the long, frigid nights.

The Wraith are cold blooded in both psychological and biological nature, befitting their insect ancestors. In the summer, it works against the few survivors of the culling, as the Wraith fare exceptionally well in the seasonably hot weather that otherwise stops most humans in their tracks. In the winter, however, the mountain cold slows the Wraith down, stopping them in their tracks. The cold is what has kept the Foothold safe these last three years. In the summer, the survivors are cautious and careful to avoid notice, while, in the winter, the survivors feel safer, secure. However, they cannot be outside during the day without the cover of trees, meaning they must brave the driving cold of the mountain winter for fresh air, travel, and trade.

However, the icy winds of the mountains are a double edged sword, both a blessing and a curse. Humans are not nearly as resilient as the Wraith, often succumbing to the cold that the Wraith so easily hibernate through or avoid altogether if possible. Their kind had lived for far too long in the false security of their decadent society, hiding behind the all too fragile wall of technology. They had forgotten how to survive in the wild once their precious empires were dashed to pieces, leaving nothing but the scattered pockets of civilization here and there that were steadily vanishing. This is why those who were so shortsighted to flee to the mountain tops did not last the first winter after the culling.

The vast majority of humans are soft and ill-prepared to face the cold. He was once that way, but not anymore. This man upon the ridge is hard and stolid. He used to be prone to panic, but, now, the man knows it serves no point to waste energy in fits of blind hysteria. His twitches had disappeared well within the first months on the run from the Wraith, save a few small gestures of self comforting that remain even now. Where he was once flighty and nervous, he is still and calm for the most part, stifling such tendencies. Fear and hesitation are luxuries his tenuous existence will not afford him. He has no other choice now. The Foothold depends upon him so very much, as this man is the only living person who has any real knowledge regarding their enemy. He must be as sure as the rock he stands atop, as the mountains that tower around him.

He sighs, a heavy and resigned sound that stems from deep within him as though born of every fiber of his being, shifting his weight uneasily in the saddle. He has waited far too long for the Gap to respond with no response. It bothers him. The ugly mare beneath him senses his tension and stamps impatiently with an almost cheery clip of metal on asphalt before tugging upon the bit to reach for some of the weeds and grasses that peek through the cracks. The lone man reaches down and pats the muscular neck, shushing the horse softly, knowing that she has waited far too long as well.

The man pulls a set of battered binoculars from his saddlebag to scan the mountains and cliff faces on the other side of the river for any sign of the Gap. He has never seen the Gap with his own two eyes, much as the people of the Gap have never seen Foothold. It is for their own safety. Should either outpost be taken by the Wraith, no amount of questioning or torture would betray the other outpost's location. There agreement has always been to establish radio contact and meet up here, at the bridge, but the Gap has not responded in hours. Nor does the solitary traveller see any sign of the camp he knows should be just beyond the golden tree line in the mountains above the other bank, nor any tracks. Nothing.

The man shakes his head and replaces the binoculars in his saddlebag. He likes the people of the Gap. He has been trading with them for some time now, and, out of all the outposts, the Gap is always been the most prompt to respond. If the Gap still exists, they would have already come down to greet him already, and he would probably already be well on his way home to Foothold. There is no question in his mind. The Gap is gone, its people likely culled.

It has been like this since the beginning. The outposts keep dropping off the map. Last month, they had lost contact with High Point. The month before that, Ramapo stopped answering transmissions, along with McCormick Isle. Before that, it was Spruce Run just a few peaks away from Foothold. Over the last winter, they had lost all contact with all the outposts to the north and many of the ones to the west, leaving but a few, scattered safe havens to the east and to the south. The outposts have steadily dwindled down to a meager, a great nation brought to its knees before the hungry Wraith. Now, it seems, he must admit that Foothold is alone on these eastern mountains.

He stares out over the river, hoping that he is wrong before giving another solemn shake of his head. Foothold isn't safe anymore. With the other outposts gone, as soon as the spring thaw hits, the Wraith are sure to find Foothold and the people hiding there. Aside from that, food is already running short, and there are too many mouths to feed through hunting now that they have raided the last remnants of civilization in their area for supplies. They will need to move as soon as it gets cold enough before they die at the hands of the Wraith or the grip of starvation.

The traveller hisses through his teeth and runs his fingers through his thin hair. He doesn't like this not knowing at all. He is a man of extreme fact and reason, to a fault at times. And moving Foothold is a risky venture no matter how well they plan. He wants to know for sure before making any hasty decisions to abandon Foothold in favor of the road, where nothing is certain save the constant threat of the Wraith.

The man reaches his radio glumly to try one more time, uttering his memorized speech but not expecting anyone to answer; this will be his last transmission here.

"This is McKay calling the Gap..."

xxxx

Twin shadows slip across the exposed rock at the top of the ridge, both keeping a wary eye upon the sky and another eye upon the man below. They have been following him for two days now, out of the mountains and down to the bridge where he has sat in wait since dawn. They watch in silence as the man makes his last radio call before shaking his head and turning his horse back towards the path he rode down from.

One of the hunters glances at his companion, nodding. They do not speak. There is no need for words. They know what must be done. The two shadows slink back down to the woods, to their own mounts, swinging into the saddles.

They do not rush to race after the man, galloping into the woods at breakneck speeds. There is no need. The long man is careful to conceal his trail, but they have been doing this for much longer than he. They can find even the most hidden of signs and follow the most difficult of trails. The pair could find the solitary man if they wanted to, if they needed to, but they do not need to.

They already know where he is going.

xxxx

Perhaps hundreds miles away, to the southwest and on a different set of equally icy mountains, a lone woman strides through the looted and filthy remnants of what had once been a large, sprawling grocery store. The woman has tied her horse under the overhang meant for the shopping carts that lay scattered and abandoned across the parking lot, but, still, she moves as quickly as possible. The woman does not feel safe so exposed and so close to town.

Before the Wraith came, humans felt secure in numbers, clustered in towns and cities, but that time is long gone. Cities herald nothing but gangs of roving marauders with no sense of morals and the Wraith. The Wraith are not drawn to the cities for the technology or the comforts of Earth dwellings. They are drawn to the once heavily populated areas because humans are drawn there, pulled there by an intrinsic nostalgia and a yearning for some semblance of normalcy in a world turned upside down- as well as for the needed supplies for survival. The Wraith lay in wait because they know, eventually, the food just wanders right up to them. It is risky to venture near any sort of settlement, no matter what the size, but it is a risk the woman must take.

The woman cuts through the produce section swiftly, the bandanna tied about her pale face as a doing nothing to hold back the stench of fruits and vegetables long rotted away to festering pools of fermented sludge. Boxes long gutted by desperate survivors and bits of glass litter the floor, while the shelves spread barren before her. She steps lightly around the overturned soda racks stained disgusting colors by beverages gone long ago. Any usable food stuffs are either gone from the first waves of rampant theft or have perished beyond any salvageable levels.

The solitary survivor makes her way to the pharmacy. Fortunately for her, no one has had the foresight to ransack it. Either that, or the steel shutters that seal the customer service window there have been enough of a deterrent to keep the precious drugs safe behind there. However, unlike the standard looter, she is patient, calculating, and in dire need of the chemicals behind the counter. The incision upon her back throbs with a dull ache from her last attempt of cutting away at herself. She needs antibiotics for both herself and Jack.

_No. _The woman mentally corrects herself with a small, remorseful pang. Jack is dead now, fed upon by the Wraith unto death, and she is alone. It hurts to think about him, but it hurts worse to even think about purging him from her mind. She can still see his eyes in her sleep, pleading with her, begging her.

She pauses for but a moment to gather herself for the task ahead of her, picking through the crushed and empty vitamin bottles at her feet until she found a tool suitable for the task in a long, slender piece of metal that might have, at one point or another. The woman wedges the end of the rod under the shutter as a level and shoves down hard upon it. The shutter gives with a metallic groan before opening just a crack, just enough for her to slip over the counter and inside the pharmacy. The woman reaches into her pack and pulls out her flashlight, cautiously peering inside for any raiders or other survivors before slipping over the counter and setting to work. The woman scans the shelves of pills and bottles, tossing anything and everything into her pack she might need in the long haul but leaving what remains for any other survivors who might come calling after her.

She moves with a purpose, for Samantha Carter hasn't any time to waste if she's to make it out of town before the Wraith notice her presence.

xxxx

The Wraith smiles in smug satisfaction. He has waited in relative isolation after his deserved exile through three revolutions of this tiny, seemingly insignificant planet about its small sun. He is not bothered by this. His patience knows no bounds by human standards. It is the Wraith way, after all. They have existed for countless centuries at the top of the food chain, challenged only by the pathetic little Lanteans. It matters not. Wraith have tremendous life spans compared to the flickers of life humans have.

The Wraith stands over the primitive console, enjoying this moment. He has been waiting for three of this planet's years to reestablish contact with the far flung galaxy he has not seen nor has any hope of ever seeing save this desperate plea. His hive turned on him shortly after finding this once fertile land teeming with lives to feed upon. He has spent many years contemplating that day when he dared chance the ire of the Queens, but never regretting it. After all, he can and will have his "just desserts," as the humans say. And regret is not a Wraith sentiment.

These computers and machines are ugly and blocky compared to the biomechanical world of Wraith technology. During the initial culling waves, when the Wraith had penetrated this mountain stronghold, someone had gone through and smashed everything they could, rendering the Stargate useless without any controls. It has taken him sometime to study their design and repair them to a functioning capacity once more, and even more time to learn both the languages of these people upon the machines and the unusual symbol system upon the Stargate, so very different from the symbols upon their own. It would have taken far less time if he did not have to work in secrecy, concealing his actions from all of his kind.

He dials, punching the keys and watching with a small, sophisticated smirk upon his face as the gate responds, lighting up and rotating with a hiss of metal on metal. The Ancient technology responds by spinning about its self before locking in the last, critical component and opening the wormhole. A crisp, blue, liquid seeming event horizon punches through with a tremendous wave, swelling out before settling into a shimmering pool of light bound by the metal rings.

The Wraith looks to the primitive radio and holds to his lips. He has had much time to memorize the safety protocols that these people had instilled long before the culling. They will require identification from him. For any other Wraith, this might be problematic, but not for this creature.

Quite the contrary to the popular belief held by humans, Wraith do, in fact, have individual social identities despite the appearance of an entirely hive mentality. Such classifications provide stability and order in a hive, as well as maintaining established rank and genetic cast, just as much as human names and titles do for their species' social structure. Unfortunately for their human prey, the names of Wraith are not pronounceable in any human tongue. Their identities are not expressed verbally, but through social gestures, tattoo markings, and pheromones in a manner not much unlike ants and bees. It is a vastly complex system that no man or woman of the species _H. sapiens _is ever likely to even vaguely comprehend, as it is so absolutely different from their own conventions.

This particular Wraith, however, _does_, in fact, have a verbal, human name. It was given to him long ago, saddled upon him by a human that fancied himself cute, but he has not used it in ages. The Wraith has not seen that human in three long years, not since their supposed alliance. While his kind are not particularly prone to nostalgia, this one sometimes finds himself wondering what happened to that human. He almost hopes that the sniveling little worm of a creature is still alive to receive his message after all this work.

He must be quick. His kind will surely notice the Stargate activity and be upon him. Nor has he an power module that will provide a stable wormhole for much more than perhaps a few minutes, if that. He will have to use that name, no matter how sour it makes him feel.

"Atlantis," he speaks in a low drone, facing what he has already learnt to be a human video transmitter of sorts. "This is Todd. I know you are listening. Respond."

xxxx

Tension rolls in Lt. Colonel John Sheppard's stomach. It is has been precisely 3 years, 5 months, and 17 days since Atlantis last made contact with the SGC and exactly 3 years, 4 months and 28 days since Atlantis lost contact with the _Daedalus _on the return trip of an otherwise routine milk run back to Earth. Several attempts have been made to bridge the gap between Pegasus and the Milky Way, but, for that whole time, there has been nothing. Any attempt to connect to the Earth gate has been unsuccessful, and there seems to be no other way to hop from gate to gate back to the Milky Way Galaxy. Without the a functioning gate connection to the SGC and without _Daedalus_, the Atlantis expedition has been stuck in Pegasus.

It hasn't been too bad. In fact, the entire expedition party was prepped for this from the beginning. With how difficult it is to locate ZPMs to power transit between the galaxies, it has always been known that loosing contact with Earth is possible. In fact, John Sheppard had signed up to the mission knowing full well it was likely they might never return. After three years, Sheppard has gotten rather used to the idea of never returning to Earth.

The only bad thing about the last three years is that Rodney McKay has been dearly missed. Radek Zelenka is an excellent worker, engineer and scientist, but he is no Rodney McKay. No one is quite like McKay. No one could be. Shortly before Atlantis lost contact with Earth, Jeannie had relayed a message through the SGC that she was expecting another child shortly but that her pregnancy had been a difficult one ending in doctor ordered bed rest for her last trimester. Rodney had returned for the Christmas to visit her before the birth about two weeks before they lost contact. And it has been a difficult time since then without the expert on Ancient technology, no matter how annoying he could be at times.

However, that is not what bothers John Sheppard. What bothers John Sheppard is the fact that there is an incoming wormhole from Earth after all this time. He stands at the command center beside Woosley, his arms folded across his chest as he stares at the open, glittering wormhole, waiting. The IDC is clear. SGC.

One of the underlings that Sheppard recognizes to be Johnson announces, "Incoming video transmission from Earth."

"Put it up onscreen," Sheppard orders quickly.

The video is presented to him promptly, and all gathered gasps. The monitor displays the SGC, but it is not the clean, orderly place any of them recall in their distant memories and dreams of Earth. It is a charred out, mangled shell of what it had once been. There are computer parts strewn about the room, scattered in utter disarray. But, what is worst, is the figure appearing before them. A tall, pale figure with long, white hair. The Wraith. The entire scene sends shivers down everyone's spines as blood runs icy cold. John can hear a few, stifled cries about him, see the slight glint of fresh, unshed tears in eyes as everyone comes to the same gut-wrenching conclusion at the same time. The SGC is gone. Meaning Earth... their home, their planet, is gone, fallen to the Wraith.

Sheppard's blood, however, boils in his veins. His fists knot to tight balls, digging fingernails into his palms. Earth fell while they were there, in Pegasus, exploring and living the great adventure. All those people. They have to be gone and dead if the Wraith have infiltrated the seemingly impenetrable mountain stronghold that is Cheyenne Mountain and the SGC. His friends. His brother. His ex-wife, Nancy. Everyone with the Stargate program who were not fortunate enough to be offworld at the time. And, with a sudden lump in his throat, John realizes that Rodney is also among the dead and doomed of that world.

The Wraith speaks, calling out to them. _"Atlantis. This is Todd. I know you are listening. Respond."_

Before Woosley can make any decisions on how to handle the matter, Sheppard takes the matter into his own hands and stabs at the consoles, immediately putting through an open channel directly to the Wraith and demanding in a venomous tone, "What do you want, Todd?"

_"Ah." _The Wraith dips its head ever so slightly in acknowledgment._ "John Sheppard. I merely wish to speak with you. I have a proposal to make."_

"Looking at the way things are, I'm not exactly inclined to listen to any proposal right now," Sheppard snarls back.

The Wraith inclines its head at a strange and predatory angle, a devilish glint to those unnatural eyes of its. _"I have a deal to make."_

"Why would I want to make a deal with a Wraith?"

The Wraith, Todd, curls its lips into a macabre smirk. _"Come through the gate and find out."_

"It's a trap," Woosley hisses under his breath.

John remains as stoic and emotionless as can be, stating rather matter-of-factly, "You'll just hand me over to a Queen as soon as you get the chance."

There is a flicker of something to the monster's eyes, somewhere blurring the line between sadness and, perhaps, regret. The creature pauses, saying not a word and moving not a muscle, maintaining his outward composure. It is a subtle thing, lasting perhaps no more than a second, just long enough for Sheppard to see it. The colonel takes noticed of the almost ashen quality of the Wraith's skin, the thinness of the skin and the places were its eyes seem too sunken. Todd has the same, sad appearance as he did starving in Koyla's captivity, giving him a downright ancient and grizzled look.

Finally, the Wraith speaks slowly, tasting its words with an obvious care and delicately pronouncing each and every syllable. _"Regrettably, I am no longer in the favor of my kind." _He smiles as much as a Wraith can, for their kind never truly smiles. _"Even more regrettably, our time grows short. Come. We have much to discuss and very little time to do so."_

"So, speak," Sheppard orders sternly.

The Wraith gives a faint laugh. _"Always to the point." _He sighs, a human action that seems just wrong on his angular face. _"I am in exile, John Sheppard. I wish nothing more than to see those who put me here suffer as I have suffered without my kin."_

"Sorry, not interested in your petty vengeance."

Todd blinks but once, almost disbelievingly, before brandishing his trump card. _"I know where Rodney McKay is."_

"You're bluffing."

The Wraith looks down, shaking his head with a chuckle that does not seem right coming from his kind. _"I assure you, I am not." _He taps at the computer before him awkwardly, as though completely unused to the English alphabet and still clumsily learning to master the American technology that runs the base. _"He is alive."_

Rodney's voice is piped through the gate to Atlantis, distant and calm in a way that no one has ever heard from the physicist, profession, a sort of weathering. _"This is McKay calling the Gap. Gap, come in?" _There is a short pause, little more than a breath. _"Gap, respond if you are there." _There spans a long pause in which only a hissing static dwells before the man speaks once more. _"This is Foothold broadcasting on all AM frequencies. Third of November, 2011. Gap not responding to radio contact, likely culled. If there are any survivors out there, good luck." _The man sounds like a tired stranger compared to the person who was once their friend. _"Foothold, out."_

_"I recorded that broadcast yesterday from one of your... satellites. It is highly unlikely I was the only one to hear it." _The Wraith pauses to let it set in, clearly gloating. _"Someone may have already chanced upon the signal as well. He is a tempting prize to the Queens, as you are surely aware," _The Wraith announces, knowing just how it sounds before adding sadistically, _"I could, of course, turn him over to any of the Queens to buy their favor once more."_

Sheppard looks to Ronon at his side. The colonel already knows what he wants, more than anything else. He wants to fight. To find McKay and save him. To kill. To crush the Wraith. To make them pay for what they have done, for all the lives they have cut short and for the world he knows without a shadow of a doubt that they have raped for all it is worth. He knows Ronon felt this way once. The warrior is grim and set. He casts a dark gaze in Sheppard's direction with a slow nod of approval.

The Wraith glances to his side, cocking his head to some noise only he can hear before what little color is in the creature's skin fades to a deathly pallor even for his kind. _"The power source is failing. If you are coming, come now."_

There is no hesitation, no question in Sheppard's mind. He moves without thought, without fear as the gate shuts down, instantly redialing the SGC. Sheppard bolts, throwing himself down the stairs. Dimly, in the distance, he can hear Woosley screaming after him, but the words make no sense. He hears only the beat of his own heart, the drumming of Ronon's heavy footsteps close behind him, and the crackle of the wormhole destabilizing. He doesn't know why he does it, but Sheppard hurls his body through the event horizon and into space, rocketing back to Earth. The wormhole collapses behind them, but Sheppard cannot hear it.

They land hard on the Earth side of the wormhole on a familiar, metal grating ramp. The event horizon instantly vanishes behind him with a glittering shimmer before darkness swallowed him. Ronon tumbles out beside him, already up and aiming into the dark. Sheppard scrambles to his feet, pulling his sidearm and training it into the darkness in sweeping motions, cursing himself for leaping without any prior thought. His impulsive nature has not been curtailed in the slightest over the last three years, and this act alone could cost him dearly. They have no weapons save their ever present side arms and their wits. No food. No survival gear. And, worst of all, no intel.

The Wraith is waiting, as it has been for some time now. "Good of you to join me."

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes : **This story has kind of been eating my brains and life for the last month when I haven't been struggling to get out another chapter for **Feast of the Samhain**_**. **_I took a trip to Buffalo, NY, by car (from basically NYC) in late October and was truly taken by the beautiful and rugged desolation I saw on the eight hour drive. It was after the leaves changed, but it was still so absolutely gorgeous on the drive up. If you can bring yourself to go into the mountains _after _the leaves change, you might be pleasantly surprised by the beauty of it.

I hope you enjoy this the first chapter.


	2. A Much Diminished World

**CALIBER - A Much Diminished World**

Samantha Carter rides alone. She has been alone for some time now, and, although it does not entirely suit her, it is how she shall remain until the last of her numbered days runs out. The once soldier deserves the loneliness, the desolation of a world ravaged by the Wraith's insatiable bloodlust. After all, she had been party to the conspiracy that had left her fellow man so utterly defenseless and clueless when it came to their common enemy, the Wraith. The secrecy and isolation that had been such a grand part of her life before Pegasus- that Carter had protected so fervently in the ill placed thought that it was protecting her people- is the only fitting punishment for her now without any jails or jailers to keep her.

When she reaches the tiny, ancient cemetery that has been her home for a month or so, now, Samantha steals inside on foot, taking care to shut the gate behind her. She removes the horse's saddle and bridle, letting it meander among the grounds. Towering pines and creaking birches shroud the grounds in shadows and an unmistakable gloom that both befits the place and her near constant mood. She watches the horse as it meanders away on lanky legs to graze between the gravestones before taking a bucket down the narrow, gravel drive to the water pump. She works it for a moment, letting the initial burst of rust colored liquid splatter on the ground before filling the bucket and taking it back towards the horse.

After the animal is taken care of, Sam sweeps about the ground quickly, checking to ensure that she is alone. She is surrounded by death, by markers proclaiming people she does not know, nor ever will. Sam had wanted, at one point, to bury something of Jack's there, perhaps under one of the big pines or in one of the few sepulchers, but she hasn't the heart to. His dog tags rattle against her own as a constant reminder of the loss.

He speaks to her in the back of her mind, reminding her, _"Check your perimeter."_

She completely a survey of the ground in no time; her tasks for the day finished, Sam steals into one of the crypts. Jack had figured it out long ago from old mission files from Pegasus. Get underground. Stay underground. It makes it harder for the Wraith to find you. The small, stone structure does not descend deep into the ground, but the heavy marble slabs and lead roofing overhead have served well enough to conceal her presence from the Wraith. The sepulcher is tiny, no larger than a small latrine. An elegantly carved Virgin Mary stands at its head, her arms outstretched in welcome. The statue is flanked on both sides by stone palettes where two coffins had been relocated to leave room for bunks for both herself and Jack when they first arrived here.

Sam sighs to herself as she peels her jacket and shirt off, positioning herself between two mirrors. She stares into the reflection of herself, into the tired, blue eyes and almost colorless flesh from spending much of her days asleep and her nights on the move. The woman who stares back at her is an entirely different person from the woman she had been three years ago. Her hair hangs in limp, dirty mats about her face. There is a sort of quiet resignation there, an acceptance of the death all about her.

She shakes her head and pulls out an old bottle of vodka and a sharp blade; it is time to try again.

xxxx

The SGC lies in ruins. Scorch marks spray across the walls where small incendiaries, likely a combination of both human and Wraith grenades, went off. The long, empty corridors are dark and dismal. Bullet holes pockmark the walls in long trails where some poor unfortunates obviously attempted the "spray-and-pray" technique of laying down suppressive fire. There are no bodies here, but the scent of death and decay lingers, as though it has seeped into every tiny niche of the base along with a faint hint of sulfur. The air is stale and stagnant, rife with the stench of rotted flesh.

The Wraith, however, is unconcerned by this. Todd walks ahead of Ronon and Sheppard in a casual, rather nonchalant stroll, allowing the two startled Lanteans time to survey and process the scene that spreads before them. He constantly reminds himself with a casual distaste that the humans are of a weaker mental fortitude than his kind and that they may require some time to recover from the psychological blow. It is simply a matter of evolution failing of their physiology being so dependent upon their psychological state.

At first, it _is _too much. The two humans survey the sorry state of affairs that is the SGC, stumbling through the rubble. Sheppard and Ronon allow the assorted battle scars and chair marks upon the once pristine and smooth concrete walls speak to them in a language they do not entirely understand at the moment, imploring the pair to hear the tale they have to offer.

The Satedan never says a word.

It is Sheppard who speaks, asking, "What happened here?"

"A combination of different factors," Todd answers simply and cryptically before explaining, "This installation became my kind's foothold into your world by joint attack between culling and through the gate. Several of the personnel here attempted to fight, but the Wraith bore superior numbers in a treatise stemming from the promise of fertile feeding grounds that could support several hives for centuries."

"And they kicked you out of their little party?"

Todd sneers bitterly at the insolent human, baring pointed, jagged teeth in return. "I was _exiled _from my hive, from my people, cut away as a cancer upon our great species."

Sheppard's pale, fragile and human hand skims over the blast marks. "So, why didn't you just go through the gate?"

"I came here hoping to return to our home through the Earth gate but found all associated control and power technology for the gate destroyed. I believe, judging by the damage done to it, your kind disabled the gate, sabotaging any Wraith attempts to jump to other planets in your galaxy and rendering it irreparable by most standards." Todd shakes his head ever so slightly, as though in disappointment. "It has taken me all this time to repair the gate for just one connection to Atlantis." He lifts a lip slightly. "While the device could function for other gates of this galaxy, I had no knowledge of what may lie beyond. Atlantis was the only coordinates I knew to successfully transfer from this network to the other. And I could not simply gate to Atlantis granted our prior... history."

"And McKay?"

Todd gives a tiny, half-hearted shrug. "He was not here when I arrived."

The colonel shakes his head as he opens the door to an empty armory lined with bare shelves and scattered, crushed boxes that once held ammunition. "No. What do you want McKay for?"

The Wraith gives a noncommittal shrug, clearly not wanting to divulge all of its secrets just yet to its new found companions. "His intellect and knowledge of earth bound solar bodies will be a great asset in destroying the hive ships, as well as reestablishing stable wormhole transit with our galaxy."

Todd says nothing more, no matter how pressed by Ronon's posturing and Sheppard's snide comments. They move through the quiet tomb that is the remains of Cheyenne Mountain, scouting for gear and supplies, finding little. A few, light jackets that will only hold so much warmth and a couple of MREs. Everything else is gone or ruined beyond salvage. Outside at the head of the base is about the same, with scattered shells of burnt out jeeps and humvees here and there.

However, they do find one major thing that brings massive grins to both Ronon and Sheppard. Hidden just by the gate house and the shredded chainlink fencing, is a single, seemingly functioning humvee. The key is still in the ignition and turned over, with the gas gauge reading empty. The Wraith sneers at their discovery, but Sheppard and Ronon are thrilled. The colonel syphons as much gas as the humvee will hold in both the tank and the reserve tanks, and, shortly, the strange trio is on its way.

The Wraith conceals his discomfort under a mask of icy composure. He does not appreciate the boxy, clunky vehicle that the two humans insist upon using. Nor does the Wraith like having to leave the relative safety and comfort of his hiding hole deep in the mountains of a place that Sheppard calls "Colorado." However, he has no other choice. Now that the zpm power source is depleted, leaving no possible return to Atlantis, both of the Lanteans refuse to help him until they safely retrieve Rodney McKay. It is a matter of practicality.

Ronon, however, cannot hide his displeasure as Sheppard drives through the mountains. He sits in the back of the humvee and behind the Wraith, his stunner at the ready in the hand at his side. The runner does not trust the Wraith no matter how much Todd insists that he intends them no harm so long as they help him in his quest. Ronon knows the Wraith. They serve their own purposes and do not willing help their prey; the warrior knows Todd will likely turn on them as soon as his task is completed and refuses to just walk blindly into a trap.

Sheppard checks the GPS and the tracker they had managed to salvage from Cheyenne Mountain as he speeds through the mountains. Todd has pointed them East, telling them he will be able to triangulate McKay's position as they get close enough to the original source of the signal. Sheppard, however, feels extremely grateful that, with the tracker, he will not have to rely upon the Wraith. Once they get within range of McKay, it should pick up his subcutaneous transmitter and guide them right to the physicist without requiring the Wraith at all.

This is a strange, new world to Sheppard. The highways are barren and empty, save for the abandoned cars and trucks that occasionally force the colonel to drive off road to get around them. There are no streetlights anymore, no signs of electricity anywhere, making the desolation all the more intense once the sun sets. There is only the headlights of the humvee piercing the depths of the night and finding nothing there but an empty, dead world spanning before them even into the dawn and the next day. Miles upon miles of derelict McDonalds and abandoned Burger Kings stand monument to a decadent society now in silent ruin. There is not a person to be seen anywhere. Not even corpses or skeletons at this point. This is a world culled to the point of extinction. A primal, wild silence hangs over everything. Visions of _28 Days Later _flash in John's mind of Jim touring the hollow shell of London devoid of human life after waking from his coma. It is too surreal to think about, but just almost.

They drive on grassy shoulder of one of the choked major highways for a while before coming across a tall, green sign reflecting in the darkness. It is the kind used to mark out major cities in big, white lettering. "Chattanooga." The Tennessee city is apparently dead ahead of them along the interstate.

The Wraith's lips move ever so slightly in effort as he reads the name before asking, "Is it a very large city?"

"Yes," Sheppard answers simple.

Todd bows his head, hiding his expression behind those stringy, white locks of his. "Avoid it."

The colonel's lips purse into a tight frown of scrutiny. "Why?"

"The cities were the first to be culled." The reply is devastatingly honest and simple as the Wraith explains, "The hives still occupy many of the once densely populated areas in hope of ferreting out what humans remain hiding there. Your military also attempted to destroy several urban areas occupied by the hives through the use of nuclear devices." The Wraith pauses but shows no fear nor any other emotion. "It would be wise to avoid such areas."

His muscles tense and clench in a seething rage at the thought of all the cities of world emptied, scrubbed clean of all life. Their world is over and dead, and there is nothing he could have done, anyone could have done to stop it. But that doesn't mean he isn't absolutely pissed that he wasn't able to _try_. When John surreptitiously glances in the rear view mirror and catches sight of the scowling Satedan behind him, he wonders if this is the same way Ronon felt seeing the images of his ruined home world shortly after arriving in Atlantis.

Sheppard heeds the warning of the Wraith sitting beside him, turning off the lights to the humvee long before they get anywhere in range of Chattanooga. He doesn't want to take any chances granted the very distinct possibility that the Wraith might be telling the truth about the cities. Ronon leads on foot, waving Sheppard on in the moonlight as the colonel idles the humvee down the roads. It takes hours to bypass the city this way, but it is the safest means.

Something flashes ever so briefly on the tracker. A subcutaneous transmitter. It it there for but a moment, long enough bother Sheppard. He furrows his brow and, in a quintessential John Sheppard moment, smacks to top of it just to be sure. The screen flickers before stilling. The subcutaneous transmitter signal appears again as a red dot, and not too far away.

Suddenly, the Wraith tenses visibly. "Stop the vehicle."

xxxx

Sam has given up on trying to dig at her back. It's at too awkward of a position, even with the mirrors for her to see and maneuver the tip of her knife. She's only succeeding in pure self butchery. Sam douses her back with the last remnants of the vodka before wrapping herself securely with the few bandages she managed to find in pharmacy. She will try again later when she feels strong enough and daring enough to hack away at herself.

The woman has just repacked her things in the knapsack when a sound catches her ear. She pricks to it, pressing the side of her head to the steel door to the sepulcher, listening carefully. At first, there is nothing, but, then, there it is once more. A distant but high pitched whine cutting through the mountains. It is a sound Sam has gotten all too used to over the years, but it still bothers her. She holds her breath as she trains her ears to the sound.

A dart.

Sam freezes in the sepulcher, following the sounds of the dart as it passes overhead. She has been careful, so very careful, these last few months in the refuge she and Jack had found before the long summer. The Wraith have never seemed to notice her presence even after Jack. Hopefully, they will just skirt overhead again without detecting her hiding place before returning back to whatever hive they hailed from.

Shivers roll down her spine as the dart gets closer. She feels her mouth trembling in unspoken prayers begging for the craft to pass overhead. Her heart thumps in her chest hard against her ribcage. She stares widely at nothing, her thoughts focused intently upon the sound of the single dart, as though sheer force of will can force the craft off course. Her luck has held out for so long, she hopes it will hold out once more.

Unfortunately, her luck has run out tonight. The craft does not deviate from its deadly course. Sam is cornered in the crypt. She will have to leave, and now. Sam grabs her pack and steals out into the darkness of the graveyard. She peers out the door cautiously as the dart circles overhead, searching for a good place to land.

The hunt is on, and it is most assuredly time to go.

xxxx

"What is it?" Sheppard cries out in surprise at the Wraith at his side.

Todd blinks once, twice, turning his head on a slight angle as though catching the faintest of sounds, like a dog training to hear a noise too high pitched for human ears. The monster holds up a silencing hand before the colonel can argue at all, closing his eyes to focus. Sheppard glances to Ronon; the Satedan has stopped, silhouetted in a beam of pale moonlight in stance that exuded annoyance at the Wraith's demand.

Sheppard looks back to the tracker screen. The red dot is present once more. It isn't nearly as sophisticated as the tracking technology on Atlantis, and offers no information on who it is, but there is quite clearly a subcutaneous transmitter on there. There is no telling who the dot is, but, incredibly it is on the move, blazing a hasty trail towards them. Whoever it is, they're alive and a survivor of the massacre of Cheyenne Mountain.

Todd shudders almost convulsively; when he speaks again, it is tersely. "They are coming. We need to hide."

Sheppard nods, trusting the Wraith oddly. He turns the humvee off the road and into the tree line, parking it a bit of a way away from a large tractor trailer that some poor, unfortunate soul must have ditched in the woods during their own flight from the Wraith. Both he and the Wraith scramble from the vehicle, running towards the tractor trailer and diving beneath it to be joined by Ronon shortly. They lie in wait, knowing the the steel truck body overhead will conceal any body heat for a short period of time.

Fortunately for them, the dart is not interested in the three men pressed onto the cool ground beneath the truck. It has entirely different prey. Hoofbeats plod in the ground against their ears as a single horse draws near.

Ronon and Sheppard crouch under the truck, waiting.

xxxx

They come on the ground for her. They always come on the ground. She sometimes wonders if it is because the Wraith might actually value some semblance of honor to the hunt. Whatever the reason, the monsters never hunt her from the safety of the skies in their darts. They always run for her.

The horse gallops swiftly under her, covering ground swiftly. It is a stocky thing, but the bay gelding has served Sam well. She and Jack had come across a small farm where it was still pastured in a vast paddock where the owners had left it during the first waves. They had worked for ages to gain the horse's trust with buckets of feed from the barn and clumps of wild clover and thistle. Neither Sam nor Jack were particularly skilled at riding, but time, trial, and effort had taught both of them more than enough to handle the bay. The horse has no name. Sam and Jack never found its name documented at the farm, and she has never thought to actually give it a name.

The Wraith are close. A stunner bolt dances with electric spark over her shoulder, close enough to send tingles skittering over her muscles. Sam grunts, gritting her teeth as she leans in over the horse's withers, her left arm dangling uselessly at her side and flopping with each stride. The woman gives quick kicks with her heels, urging the horse faster through the hills.

Hooves clatter across the highway as Carter threads through abandoned cars. There had been a time when she and Jack had driven around in one of the millions of cars that lie empty and still alongside the road, but it had quickly become far too tiresome a bother to find gas. After the second year, the vast majority of the gas tanks had been syphoned clean and all gas stations pumped dry by other survivors now long dead. Without a viable source of fuel, the cars stood useless and dead. She threads through them without any thought, jerking at the bit harshly with her right hand and using the metallic hulks as shields.

The woman spots an opening in the trees and throws the horse towards it. The forests are always better cover, and, with as dark her clothing and steed are, it is far more likely that she can through off her pursuers under the cover of the embracing shadows that in the light of the moon.

Sadly, with a piercing whinny, the horse's fore ankles catch on something. The bay trips, crashing towards the ground. Sam barely has enough time to lean to the side and off the horse before it rolls right over her. She lands just out of the reach of thrashing hooves as the gelding turns to the side and fights to rise. It claws at the ground with well shod hooves, but, in the scant rays of moonlight, Sam can see the links of barbed chain wrapped about the forelegs, hobbling the gelding. It is an ingenious trip wire of a seemingly unbreakable metal that the Wraith manufacturer, twisting tighter with every fighting movement of the horse, crippling it with a sudden snap of shattering bones. It is the same trap that caught Jack.

Carter winces but abandons the animal. She cannot afford to spare the bullet to put the gelding out of its misery nor the time for grief and sentimental attachment. The Wraith are close, and, now, she is on foot in territory they have obviously scouted out before hand.

xxxx

A horse screams into the night, sending shivers down both Ronon's and Sheppard's spines, but the Wraith hardly seems to notice. The three stare out, into the darkness. Sheppard envies the natural night vision of the Wraith and the keen senses of Ronon honed from years on the run. The two see things and hear things he cannot imagine, written in scant clues about them that John will never be able to see no matter how he tries.

Sheppard's senses are sharp enough, however, to catch the sounds of footsteps coming towards them and quickly at that. There is a small cluster of people approaching. Sheppard listens to the beats as they draw close. His pistol is drawn and the safety off before the colonel even realizes he has done it. Beside him, Ronon has his own stunner at the ready, and, to his other side, the Wraith holds out his right hand, his feeding hand, as the lethal weapon it is in its own right.

As the footsteps come near enough, the three of them spring at the same time from their hiding spot. Ronon and the Wraith aim for the two nearest to them, as Sheppard bolts after the third. Each aims for flaxen locks gleaming almost silver in the moonlight. Ronon snatches his target by the head and twists it about hard, snapping the neck in a quick, seemingly practiced motion. Todd just as easily dispatches his own opponent as Sheppard takes careful aim with his sidearm and fires at the Wraith bolting from him.

A figure ahead of the Wraith turns in the dark, and John's eyes go wide. He cannot help it as the lithe ghost comes into view in the dim light of the moon and stars. She stares back with equal surprise and shock. The face is unmistakable even with the filthy, golden locks. The woman shakes her head and starts off into the darkness away from them.

"Carter?"

xxxx

Sam freezes when she hears the all too familiar retort of small arms fire cracking in the night behind her. Wraith do not fire the primitive weapons they found in their explorations and occupations military bases. It is as though they see no sense behind the things. It can mean only one thing. Humans. People. Survivors.

The woman wheels about on her heel and gasps audibly. She cannot believe her eyes as the interlopers who slew her Wraith pursuers begin to step towards here in the beams of pale moonlight that slip between the trees. Carter blinks. They cannot be real, these people who are slowly, cautiously approaching and stepping over the corpses of their fallen enemies. As they come closer, Sam recognizes two of them all too well. John Sheppard and Ronon Dex. The third is a lone Wraith, gazing down upon its fallen kin with obvious disgust, only further confirming the thought that this cannot be real.

There remains only one possible explanation, the woman rationalizes with a clinical detachment to the situation and to their presence. She calmly and scientifically acknowledges in the back of her mind that they are likely nothing more than apparitions, visual hallucinations stemming from her wounded psyche after three years of the unimaginable. The invasion of the Wraith. The fall of the SGC. Jack's sacrifice, and, now, the unfortunate death of the gelding. The scientist in her admits that she must have merely reached her psychological wit's end.

There is no other way that John Sheppard and Ronon Dex could be there, in the woods standing before her. The last time Sam had seen or heard from either of them, the two were safely stationed on Atlantis, far from Earth at the time of the incursion. The _Daedalus _had been brought down, her entire crew killed, meaning that there was no way either man could have returned on the cruiser. She and Jack had personally seen to it that every last bit of the bodgered DHD and the assorted control paraphernalia to the Earth gate was destroyed beyond usage and repair, rending the devices utterly useless and turning the gate into nothing more than a massive Egyptian-art-deco sculpture. Ronon Dex and John Sheppard could not possibly get back to Earth and, therefore, must still be on Atlantis, safe, sound, and completely unaware of the horrors that have plagued their home world.

Carter is lucid enough to understand this logically and mentally resolves to add antidepressants to the list of supplies she will need to get on her next pharmacy run. She shakes her head at herself, at the mind that plays such terrible, mean tricks on her, and begins to start off. The Wraith will be coming again, and she needs to put as much distance between this slain party and herself before they arrive.

It is only when the hallucination of John Sheppard calls her name that Carter stops. "Carter?"

Sam blocks it out. Auditory hallucinations often accompany visual hallucinations. She files this fact away in the back of her mind along with any other symptoms and signs that seem important. These minor clues will help her fine tune her self-diagnosis and treatment schedule when she finds the appropriate medications.

Sheppard glances warily to Ronon as the woman continues to walk away and rather pointedly tries to ignore them. The runner shrugs. Emotions are not - nor have they ever been - either of their strong suits. Carter bears a weathered, tired and haggard look, as though pushed beyond the brink of sanity, dashed to pieces, and coarsely cobbled back together. She needs Teyla, the Athosian's natural empathy and soothing tones, but Teyla is back on Atlantis, leaving Carter with Sheppard, Ronon, and the rogue Wraith.

"Carter?" Sheppard calls softly again, following after her.

The woman flinches but continues on. Sam strains to ignore the sounds behind her. They are not real, and any sort of reply would only be positively reinforcing her own, clear insanity. The effort is wrought in every muscle and spoken in every fine line in her once delicate face.

Sheppard gently places a hand upon her slender and bony shoulder, feeling her go rigid and tense under even his light touch. "Sam?"

The woman stops now, dead in her tracks, her entire body trembling and raw. She has been running on raw adrenaline now for some time, and the contact is electric, singing through her tattered uniform and through her every nerve. It is warm and solid, something hallucinations should never, can never be. Sam raises her head, swallowing her shock.

"Sheppard?" her voice is cracked and rough, as though unused to speech.

He smiles, an awkward and lopsided smirk. "In the flesh."

Sam closes her eyes and nods her marble white face before taking in John's appearance. Red clay mars the legs and knees of his black BDU pants as well as his polished boots and palms. There are leaves and tiny bits of grass stuck there as well. He shivers slightly when her eye meet his worried gaze. He is not dressed for the chilly, late fall climate, nor for a mission. Were he truly a hallucination, Sam is certain she would at least be creative enough to imagine her rescuer as well armed and dressed appropriately for the weather, or at least well groomed. This seems too honest, too real and too concrete to be a hallucination.

"Are you...." The woman pauses, unsure of herself, her eyes still roving wildly over Sheppard and Ronon. "Are you real?"

"As can be," he responds, squeezing her shoulder.

She blinks past the shock, her throat drying instantly and squeezing tight with some unspoken horror that the figures before her might dissolve into shadows once more and leave her alone in the world again. "How did you.... how did you get here?"

"Long story," Sheppard answers oddly.

There is a long moment where neither says a word or moves. Finally, it is Sheppard who broaches the stillness between them. He outstretches his arms and enfolds Sam in a warm embrace, pulling her frail seeming body close to his and holding her tight. It is an awkward embrace, as she outranks him and as neither were very "touchy-feely" with one another before, but neither seems to care. He rubs her back ever so slightly and reassuringly and is more than disconcerted to feel just about every bone of hers even through her heavy, winter jacket. It has been a hard three years for Samantha Carter, and Sheppard knows it. A part of John distantly wonders if she is crying, but Sam is quiet and withdrawn, a woman not known for emotional displays. The only sound she does make is when Sam hisses uncomfortably and involuntarily through her teeth in pain when his hand passes over the center of her back, between his shoulder blades, and he notes to avoid that spot as she shifts in his hold.

When he loosens the embrace, Carter slips from his hold easily enough, whispering rather calmly and knowingly, "You should be moving out."

John furrowed his brow, catching her by the wrist. "Sam.... where...." He meets her crystalline blue gaze with a hesitation that he has not known in some time. "Where is everyone?" She looks down, averting her gaze, and it is answer enough for him. "Right."

"What are you doing here?" the woman counters quickly. She frowns deeply. "Jack and I... we destroyed the gate. Sealed off the Wraith from getting to Atlantis."

Sheppard reaches out for her once more with his other hand, but Sam twists away from it. "Todd.... he brought us back." The colonel scans her pale eyes, searching for something, some sort of understanding. "He knows where McKay is." Sam's lips press into a tight, unreadable expression, and Sheppard smiles, hoping to instill some hope in this shell of a person before him. "McKay is alive. We're going to go get him."

The woman shakes her head nervously, tossing her straw colored hair before shaking off his loose hold once more. "You need to keep moving. Go on." Carter pushes him away with a hard, quick shove. "Go."

"Sam?"

"The Wraith will be back soon," the woman goes on in a distracted sort of way, turning away from them.

He recalls how she shivered and hissed when his fingers graced her back, and the simple fact slaps Sheppard right in the face with a sudden sting. "You're a runner."

Ronon blinks where he stands at the statement, but not even he can deny the sheer, unadulterated validity of the suspicion. Carter was being chased at night by Wraith on foot. Hungry Wraith never cull from the ground, always taking to the skies in their damned darts where they have an incredible degree of accuracy and ease of capture with those radiant and sickeningly beautiful beams of theirs. The only time Wraith hunt on foot is after runners.

The time and battle hardened woman stills, drawing in a deep breath. "Yes."

Todd hisses from afar in the darkness, skulking through the shadows like a villainous beast from a macabre fairy tale. "Leave her."

"I am not leaving her," Sheppard growls back to the creature.

The Wraith sniffs haughtily. "She is a liability. I do not have the tools I would require to remove the tracking device implanted in her safely. She will simply lure other Wraith upon us."

"I am _not _leaving her," the colonel asserts once more, far more hotly this time.

Sam smiles listlessly. "Sheppard." He turns to her in surprise at the sudden calm and peace to her voice. "Go on. That's an order."

"No."

The woman laughs tersely and nervously, and the sound comes out a sickly death rattle in her throat trilling harshly in the air. "Never did know when to quit, did you, you stubborn ass."

The profanity and insult catches John off guard, but, then, again, he doesn't know what three years has done to Samantha Carter along with any other survivors out there, Rodney McKay included; he runs his fingers through his hair, begging, "C'mon, Sam, you know I don't leave men behind." He smirks defiantly and mischievously. "Plus, you've seen me in action. You know I don't follow orders well."

"Nope."

Sheppard beams warmly, seeing something stirring in Sam. "So.... come with us."

Sam turns and nods, but the Wraith just snarls under its breath. "Foolish humans." It curls its lips in a threatening sort of way, sure to proudly brandish those pointed fangs of his in clear scorn. "And you wonder why the Wraith see you as nothing but prey."

There is a cold moment as Ronon and Sheppard size up the Wraith and weigh the option of just wandering the country in search of McKay and this Foothold he hailed from on the transmission before conceding. No matter how much they loath the Wraith, in increasing amounts after this incident, they need Todd. The quartet returns to the humvee and to the road, all eyes constantly shifting to the sky now that they are all too aware of the tracking device in Sam that will draw the Wraith right to them. It is only a matter of time before the Wraith catch up with them. Sam listens as Sheppard explains the need to find Foothold and McKay, but, soon, she drifts away into a deep, intoxicating and dreamless sleep.

xxxx

They drive through the night until, at one point, the Wraith turns its pointed nose skywards and inhales deeply. It closes its eyes, as though savoring some scent on the wind, but when human nostrils catch it, the odor is nothing but repulsive. The wind carries the nauseating stench of rot and decay. No one says a thing, mostly out of discomfort as they keep driving. Both the Wraith and Sam know all too well where the smell is coming from, but neither will say a thing about it unless they must.

When they draw too near, it is Sam who finally speaks up in an ominous tone. "Turn away."

Sheppard allows the humvee to coast to a stop before glancing to the woman huddled in the back seat beside Ronon. "What?"

"Turn away now," Sam repeats, firmly this time. "You don't want to go that way."

The Wraith lifts its lip and tilts its head to the colonel at his side. "You should listen to the female."

"Didn't ask you, Todd," the colonel snarls under his breath before returning his attention to Sam. "What's down that way?"

"Death."

It is the only response Sam gives before going silent and still once more. Ronon and Sheppard exchange wary looks, but they have no choice. They are in the middle of nowhere with no other road to follow, somewhere in America. Sheppard reluctantly informs both Todd and Carter that they must continue down this particular road, no matter what lies ahead to face them. The Wraith dips its head in concession, and the woman merely pulls a tattered, soiled bandanna from her pocket to wrap about her face, covering her nose and mouth. Sheppard and Ronon follow suit before they continue down the road in the dark of the night.

After a time, the road rises up a hill, and cool beams of moonlight puddle in a valley beneath them, casting unsettling shadows about. The stench is the worst now, seeping into the humvee through every tiny crack and gap, oozing into their clothes and into their skin before settling there. Twigs reach from the valley below, like jagged claws reaching for heaven. Carrion birds circle in the sky, possibly ravens or turkey vultures. The entire scene is downright macabre and nerve-wracking. It is such an eerie effect that it even seems to put the two human males on edge. Sam just keeps her eyes closed and her head hung low. Todd hardly seems to notice, and something about that is all the worse.

Sheppard slams on the brakes when the headlights of the humvee settle on something pale and milky white in the middle of the road. It is an oddly round but mildly oblong shape, and horribly familiar. Sheppard furrows his brow and stops the vehicle, being sure to take the key from the ignition. The Wraith does not move, but Sam, Ronon, and Sheppard inch from the humvee and towards the object.

It is Sheppard who reaches it first and prods it over, revealing the hollowed out eyes of a vacant human skull staring back at him; the colonel jumps back, clearly startled. "Shit!"

However, Sam has not noticed. When Sheppard looks to her, the woman has her back to the two men. She is staring down and into the valley below. Her breaths appear as puffs of white steam in the light of the humvee and the moon. Her arms wrap about her frail seeming frame, occasionally rubbing her upper arms as though to keep the bitter cold at bay. She shudders, but, somehow, Sheppard knows it is not from the wintery chill to the air.

Sheppard approaches slowly and puts a hand on her shoulder. "Carter?"

The woman does not flinch but nods her head in the direction of the valley spanning below; the bandanna muffles her voice as she speaks. "So many..."

The colonel finally looks down into the depths below, allowing his eyes to focus for the first time on what he had initially thought were twigs or dead trees. He is, instead, horrified to see that is far from the case. His stomach churns violently as the colonel spies the sea of desiccated corpses that had once been vibrant humans spreading before them, in various stages of decay. There are too many to count, but Sheppard knows that there must be thousands upon thousands of.... _people _there, spread out in massive piles stretching for miles. Some are nothing more than mangled skeletons in tattered clothes ravaged by both the unforgiving mountain weather and scavengers. Necrotic gases bloat the grey green flesh of most of the bodies, while the piles of newer, freshly deposited corpses, still pale and almost fresh, lie stiff and dormant in their rigor. Perhaps the entire population of Atlanta, Nashville and Chattanooga sprawl before them in that awful place of festering, lingering death, perhaps more. Sheppard knows without the need for any explanation that these are the victims of the Wraith, all left to rot out there in an anonymous, mass grave. It is the trash heap of the sated Wraith, prowled by what appeared to be a wild assortment of coyotes and domestic dogs turned feral, chewing and tearing at the carcasses.

"Dumping grounds," Ronon growls in a deep, throaty rumble, despite that fact that no explanation is needed.

Sam whispers in a barely audible hush. "Jack is out there, in a pit like this somewhere."

Sheppard's heart wrenches in his chest at the thought. He knows precisely who the woman speaks of; Jack O'Neill. The colonel had always been rather fond of O'Neill after the incidents in Antarctica put Sheppard on the path to Atlantis. In return, Sheppard had felt that O'Neill's blatant disregard for authority mirrored his own, leading him to believe they were kindred spirits of sorts. It leaves a deep hollow in Sheppard's heart to think that somewhere, in the lonely, expansive fields of the dead, lies Jack O'Neill's body left for the scavengers to rip apart.

John opens his mouth to inquire more, but the blonde goes on in a soft, somber way. "We were at the SGC when the Wraith came. Jack thought we could hold them off with the Asgard." Sam looks down, pausing to collect her fragmented thoughts. "There was just too many of them, and too few of us who actually knew what we were doing." Sam sighs heavily. "We were incredibly outnumbered and outgunned. There was no stopping the Wraith once they got a foothold."

There is a long moment when neither says a word as they just stare over the corpses below them. The bodies are testament enough to the failures of the American military to defend the nation and the planet from the Wraith. They had relied upon the thought that Earth was simply too far away to be found by the life-sucking-space-vampires, assuming safety in distance. Ronon could have told them otherwise, that the Wraith were patient predators that never stopped hunting for their quarry no matter what.

"We did the only thing we could. We destroyed the gate to protect Atlantis, hoping that you guys would be safe until you could come save us. That's when the Wraith found us." The woman shakes her head, obviously straining to keep her emotions in check. "Jack, Landry and I, were all apparently well known enough among the Wraith to be sporting prey."

"Sam..." John breathes.

The woman does not stop, her gaze still upon the sea of bodies. "Landry didn't last a week. The Wraith caught up with us while we camped for the night." She blinks, and Sheppard thinks that perhaps he might see the glistening of forming tears as the woman continues, "After a while, Jack decided we needed to do something, anything." Carter reaches for the dogtags beneath her shirt, palming them between her fingers as she says, "We went from being the _hunted _to being the _hunter_." Sam looks down and prods at what might be a pebble or a knuckle bone. "We killed many, but we got cocky. We got sloppy."

Carter pauses, and, for a moment, John can see the lines there that had not been there before, an aging that bothered him. She seems weary and tired in way. Her body looks tiny and almost fragile. It is the memories, bearing down upon her. Yet she does not cry, nor shiver, nor make any emotional display, really. Aside from the slick shine of what might be tears forming, Carter maintains an emotional ground born out of necessity from years on the run, the same, calculating distance that Ronon had first displayed after capturing Sheppard and Teyla.

Then, the woman sighs. "We had been setting traps for them so long, we never imagined they'd start setting traps for us." She frowns. "Jack saw it before I did. I just.... he pushed me out of the way before the trip wire snapped. It... it..." Carter fidgets with her hands, as though desperately seeking an appropriate gesture. "It caught him around the ankles and broke them before he even knew what hit him. Trapped him. Crippled him. I couldn't get him free." The woman stiffens, holding out the dogtags at the full length of the ball chain. "He gave me these. He... _made_ me leave him."

Sheppard nods. If placed in the same situation, the colonel knows he would have done the same. In fact, Sheppard would have probably drawn a gun on anyone who attempted to stay with him, which is likely what O'Neill did to drive Sam away from him during those last, agonizing moments before the Wraith descended. Sheppard knows Carter too well to know that she, much like many of the SGC and the Atlantis crew, do not leave people behind so callously.

His suspicions are confirmed when Carter goes on. "I watched. I watched the Wraith feed on him." Sam closes her eyes slowly, as though she sees it still, the image burned into her retinas. "They took him like their prize, but he was already dead." She sighs, opening her eyes and surveying the pit of corpses. "And, now, he's out there somewhere."

"I'm sorry," John whispers in a hoarse voice, although it feels a hollow sentiment compared to the grief Sam must harbor even now.

The woman shakes her head. "We should keep moving before another dart comes to dump."

Sheppard gives a numb nod, and they return to the humvee to drive on through the night, leaving the mass grave behind them but not the lingering, haunting death that has caught up with them and snared them in its claws. Death stalks their path now, lingering in the many shadows and the sparkling stars in the heavens. The Wraith are still out there, and still filling pits like this one all over the world and probably throughout this entire galaxy.

The Wraith says nothing to the defense of his kind; there is no defense for gluttony of this scale.

xxxx

It is sometime in the early morning of the next day and at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains when the odd quartet must contemplate ditching the humvee off the side of the road. The road ahead of them is choked with cars and trucks abandoned during the waves of evacuations from the major cities and the eastern seaboard. Even the grassy medians and gravel shoulders are packed with a dense cluster of vehicles, most packed with assortments of useless clothing and sentimental trifles and several with their doors hanging open from the flight. Sheppard pulls the humvee off to the side of the road to think about this and plan even as he subconsciously pulls the tracking device from the vehicle and stuffs it in his pocket.

Sam is uneasy about the Wraith. Todd's presence serves to unnerve Sheppard and irritate Ronon, but the woman seems downright rattled by the creature, and with fair right. She keeps her distance from the Wraith as the men talk and stare down the long length of cluttered highway.

The Wraith moves stiffly now; Sheppard furrows his brow. "What's your problem?"

Todd sniffs at the frosty air, letting his eyelid droop closed. "The cold."

"Yeah, well, that's what you get for invading planets that have these mysterious things called fall and winter," Sheppard prods at a sparkling, frost coated leaf upon the ground. "Cold kind of comes with the package."

"My kind are ill suited to cold weather."

The colonel smirks. "I guess that comes with the whole 'we-evolved-from-bugs' thing."

The Wraith lifts an eyebrow at the sarcastic remark, the inclination of his head indicating that he is not nearly as amused as Sheppard is at the jest, but Todd replies steadily, "So it seems."

Carter shakes her head almost imperceptibly. "You go on ahead."

"Sam?" Sheppard breathes. "I told you I'm not leaving you."

She reaches into her pack, pulling out a map of the United States and plastering it over the hood of the humvee. There are markings just about everywhere across the map, in a complex system of colors and patterns. Some of the more pragmatic notes, Sheppard recognizes as having been writing in O'Neill's chicken scratch. Other portions of the map have been detailed in Carter's neat, precise writing. There are red lines crossed over the territory they now stand upon, spanning the central portion of the Appalachians. There are small question marks here and there across the mountain chains, but none labeled.

"Here are we," Sam announces, pointing a bony finger to one of the highways. "And this-" she sweeps the tip of her finger over the mountains to a cluster of the question marks "- is where Jack I suspected where some of the camps like Foothold and the Gap were positioned." The woman points to the map and to the red territory that spans between their position and Foothold, the ink faded into blossoming watermarks like festering tumors. "This is raider land. Nothing but looters and go-gangs from here until the coast, with heavy Wraith traffic." She sighs, pushing back her blonde hair. "I'm nothing but a homing beacon; I'll just lead the Wraith right to you and right to any other survivors. Besides, someone's got to stay here and make sure no one takes the vehicle." Sam rolls the detailed map up and pushes it into Sheppard's hand. "You'll need this."

Sheppard frowns but nods at her perfect and sound - as usual - logic, stroking his chin. "Alright." He presses the keys from the humvee into Carter's hand, squeezing hers for but a moment before giving another sure nod. "Head to the SGC. It's empty now, so you'll be safe there. Try to get the gate running. We'll meet you."

She smiles and hugs him. "Take care of yourself, Sheppard."

"You, too."

Carter watches as the colonel looks to Ronon and the Wraith, jerking his head in the direction of the dead highway. The woman watches as the strange trio begins to wander off down the long stream of abandoned cars. She keeps staring at them, following their motion until the three vanish into the landscape, her own vigil over them. Sam says a small prayer in hopes that she might see them once again before climbing into the humvee.

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes : **Hey, look! A holiday stocking stuffer! I had a second chapter already. Enjoy!


	3. Predator and Prey

**CALIBER - Predator and Prey**

They walk in silence for hours through the night and into the next morning. The Wraith insists they travel by night fall as opposed to moving through broad daylight as a prime target begging to be culled. Not only does it help them to avoid detection, but moving by night keeps their blood moving and their bodies warm in the chilly fall air. It is a sound judgment that even Ronon must grudgingly agree with. During the day, the trio hunkers down in the undergrowth to rest, although Sheppard admits he never sees the Wraith ever lie down to truly sleep like humans do. At dusk, Ronon and Sheppard eat meager rations of their remaining MREs before they start off to hike through the darkness in the direction the Wraith points them in; the Wraith does not eat.

The mountains rise around them now, tall and proud. These are the Appalachians, formed eons before man ever crossed the land bridge to the Americas, perhaps before man ever truly migrated _anywhere_. Ronon is surprised by the way the mountains roll gently from weathered tops as opposed to piercing the heavens with jagged, rocky peaks. These curving ranges are mild and soft, tranquil almost, compared to the dark places Ronon had been forced to hide while he was on the run. He inquires about them to Sheppard, but the colonel admits that even he has never really spent any time in these mountains.

On the third day, the rumble of distant motorcycles sends shivers down Sheppard's spine. Recalling Sam's warning of the go-gangs and raiders, the three veer off the road and tuck into the dense underbrush, watching and waiting. No more than a half an hour later, a sprawling and rather tough looking gang of perhaps two dozen bikers scream past at breakneck speed on an assorted collection of beaten up choppers, followed by an ancient pick-up. They are heavily armed by the looks of them, and the pick-up is loaded down with supplies and, to Sheppard's great distaste, a bloody, human corpse. There is no doubt in his mind that the packs of roving gangs are to be avoided at all costs. The gang does not notice them, and the colonel waits for perhaps too long before signaling to Ronon and Todd that it is safe for them to move on.

By the fifth day, the three of them come across a mighty river. It is wide and deep, but placid and calm, slipping through the barren woods about them and flanked by abandoned, cracked roads on either side. It is a calm river, despite its magnitude, babbling and murmuring against its rocky shores. Across the river, there spans a wild, untamed land that smokes in spots from still burning fires even all these years after the first incursion. Sheppard quietly announces that this is the Deleware River, the border between two territories known as states. The Wraith cautions that they do not cross the river, pointing out a barely visible hive ship in the distance over the land the colonel had referred to as "New Jersey." The three follow the river to the north for a day, keeping to the tree line and occasionally snaking miles inland to avoid the few major cities along the water. So close to that land, the Wraith suggests that they keep moving, even through the day as much as possible, to put as much distance between them and the hive ship.

They come to a land of rugged beauty where the river lazes through a tight gap between the mountains. The land is scarred atop high ridges by lines of exposed, gray rock. Ronon occasionally darts his gaze to the mountain tops suspiciously. He seems agitated by the sudden, pressing nature of the cliffs overhead to their left bearing down upon them and pinching the road to a narrow, two lane thing that hugs the alternating steep hills and sheer faces. The Satedan's finger occasionally drifts down to caress the hair trigger of his stunner. He does this more and more frequently the further the day goes on and the higher the sun rises higher in the sky until it beats down upon them with warm rays. They spy a white bridge in the far distance, spanning a deep gash in the range over the wide river, when the big man stops abruptly, standing rigidly in place.

"What is it?" Sheppard inquires curiously.

Ronon stiffens, bristling visibly before breathing in a hush, barely moving his lips, "Upper ridge. Your 10." Sheppard turns and raises his hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun, but the runner shakes his head in warning. "Put your hand down."

The colonel listens, and his hand drops instantly to his side. He has known the Satedan for long enough know to know that Ronon does not play jokes at moments like this. If Ronon has circled, it is for a serious reason and not because he simply lost his way. The runner said for him to put his hand down, and, so, Sheppard puts his hand down. His gaze, however, moves up the mountain to his left, towards the top of the ridge where the rocks reach above thin trees to the sky. A small flock of birds take to wing there in a sudden flutter, despite there being nothing else there.

"Lower cliff on your 7," the runner whispers.

Sheppard gives a tiny nod as he turns, pretending to be surveying something on his vest as he does. There is definitely motion upon the cliff there, but the colonel cannot see anything there but rocks and stone. However, even as he watches, a few bits of loose shale and pebbles tumble down from nowhere, knocked loose by something watching him in return.

"We're being hunted," the Satedan growls in a low tone.

"Probably survivors looking to take what we've got. How many?" the colonel inquires.

"Two, at least."

Sheppard furrows his brow. "How long?"

"Long enough," Todd, the Wraith, answers in a moment of almost Rodney-like pure sarcasm, not even raising his eyes to their unseen pursuer.

Ronon nudges at a bit of broken asphalt at his feet, as through trying to appear nonchalant about the whole thing. "First noticed it a few hours ago." The warrior appears impassive and not bothered by whatever it was following them. "They're pressing us forwards."

"To what?" The colonel sighs, disconcerted by this entire place that had once been a great nation.

The Wraith sniffs at the air, tasting it through his nasal slits and closing his eyes in contemplation of the scents carried by the rustling, fall breeze. "If our hunters are human, likely to the West, to the mountains. If Wraith, to the East, to the urban areas and the hives that remain there."

"A trap either way," Sheppard surmises, rubbing the muscles of the back of his neck and shoulders before shifting his gaze between the cliffs, the Satedan, the Wraith, and the bridge ahead. "Ronon, swing back and follow. See if you can't get above them and drive them out of the rocks."

"And we two?" The Wraith asks.

Sheppard shrugs. "We keep moving forward. If it's Wraith, you get to play nice-nice. If it's people, well, we'll figure it out from there."

xxxx

The eternal odd couple of Col. John Sheppard and the Wraith known simply as "Todd" walk alongside the Deleware River towards the sweeping bridge for some time. Sheppard recognizes the edifice spanning the languid river from having crossed it a few times in his life. The Deleware Water Gap. A small part of the man shivers with delight and mild amusement at the thought. "The Gap." It fits in an appropriate sort of way and makes perfect sense. Somewhere around here is - or was, rather - the encampment that McKay must have been trying to contact, but there is no sign of the settlement, nor any survivors.

On the New Jersey side is nothing, miles upon miles of nothing. On the Pennsylvania side of the bridge stands a lonely toll both. The bridge itself is clear, but John can see the spots in the structure where someone has rolled cars and trucks either off the road or right off the bridge into the water - potential ecological damage be damned - to clear a path between the two states. The road beyond on either side has been barricaded and blocked by all the vehicles displaced from the bridge in tightly packed walls. The bridge is clear, but the roads leading up to it are not, creating a precise choke-point between the two states. Someone has gone through a great effort to accomplish all this, likely over many months. Sheppard ponders curiously who did it, if it was McKay and his group, or another.

The Wraith inclines its angular head to study the bright, blue sign. His feral eyes rove over the sign, a greeting to the Keystone State. The alien takes a moment to process the written English language. Sheppard had quickly come to learn upon arriving in Pegasus all those years ago that learning alien languages isn't always the easiest thing, particularly with all the unique nuances to each and every little regional dialect. John has a momentary lapse of reason when he almost admires the Wraith for managing to pick up written English without any sort of alien Rosetta Stone or codex to help. The light is fading as the sun sets over the mountains, staining the sky a rich crimson, but, even in the dim light, Sheppard can spy the Wraith's lips moving ever so slightly as it reads.

"The Keystone State?" it hisses in thinly veiled intrigue.

Sheppard nods, gazing up to the hills just in time to catch the subtle motion of a shadow, possibly one of their quarry or possibly just a squirrel, and answering, "Yeah. All of the states have these slogans." He turns his attention to the smoke rising behind the mountains in New Jersey, snickering as he nods his head towards the East, "Garden State my ass."

The Wraith gives a contemplative nod. "Such obsession with naming."

The colonel shrugs absently. "Independent identity is important to people. Don't Wraith have names?"

"We have individual identities and roles within a hive, but no names," Todd answers, still surveying the crisp, cerulean sign with an eerie intent. "I am one of very few Wraith to have a verbal name." The creature flashes an almost teasing look to Sheppard. "Thanks to you."

"Aw, and I didn't think you cared," Sheppard snaps right back before pulling his radio and calling, "Ronon, you there?"

_"I'm here." _It is a simple, terse reply, quick and to the point, very much like the Satedan.

"What's your position?" The colonel inquires, his eyes fixed upon the spot he just spied a bit of motion, hoping it is Ronon.

_"Halfway to the top." _Ronon grunts with effort over the radio as though perhaps climbing a particularly difficult stretch of terrain. _"South ridge."_

Sheppard spies a singular bird taking to wing at the top of the rocky cliff just above them in the dim twilight, crying out as it flies. It is closer now, but still too high up the side of the mountain to engage with effectively. The sudden proximity unnerves Sheppard, but the Wraith does not appear concerned. The alien beast merely raises its predatory gaze to take in the motion in the dying remnants of light, drawing in a pregnant breath but saying not a word.

The colonel sighs and jerks his head towards the long, lonely stretch of highway leading into the Pennsylvania mountains. "We should keep moving."

"Agreed," the Wraith simply states.

Sheppard takes to his radio. "Ronon. Moving inland."

_"Understood."_

xxxx

The night somehow feels darker and deeper in the mountains. It could be just the approach of winter kissing everything in a fine, delicate and lacy frost, or perhaps the length of the night. Whatever it is, the night embraces the unusual pair, draping them in the willowy shadows of tall trees.

The Wraith seems perfectly at home in the dark of the night, welcome by the shadows; it gives his pale skin an unnaturally predatory edge. Occasionally, the creature pauses. He draws long breaths of the icy air through his mouth and facial slits, tasting the night and the scents in the vast, abandoned expanse that is the relic of Pennsylvania. Sheppard wonders what has caught his attention, if its another refuse pit, the musky urine trail of another predator, or perhaps chemical waste from the aftermath of the initial incursion. The Wraith may not know exactly where McKay is, but he senses something in the night, some scent upon the air to follow like a true predator would. After a short while, the Wraith points Sheppard off the road and onto the hard, frozen ground that is the mountains, indicating for them to head up.

Sheppard turns his gaze skywards now and again. He has never seen the Earth heavens so beautiful before, except during his stay in Antarctica. Not a cloud mars the sky. Millions of sparkling stars dapple the velvety blue, like diamonds scattered across a stretch indigo silk. Pale light splashes down upon the land from the thin, crescent moon. And, yet, it is more light than Sheppard has ever seen from even that faint of a moon. Without the hampering of intense, metropolitan light pollution, every little constellation memorized during his youth and again during training become much more vivid and intense, dazzling against the depths of a blue so rich that it is almost unbearable to think of the cost.

A noise catches the Wraith's attention long before it does Sheppard. In fact, the only indication Sheppard has that anything is wrong is the slight angle to Todd's head, so slight, in fact, that it seems a mere illusion spun by the silver threads of moonlight. However, those feral eyes give it away by occasionally flicking to the side in a curious study of the sound. It more than enough to tip the colonel off to the fact that the pair are suddenly being trailed at a frighteningly close proximity by something lurking just out of sight and in the trees around them. The next time a leaf crinkles far too close for his liking, Sheppard hears it, fighting the urge to jump at the sound. Something is following them, stalking their path through the barren stretch of otherwise empty woods.

Cautiously, Sheppards hails the unseen runner in the shadows. "Going silent."

The runner does not answer. Ronon knows better to, much as Sheppard knows, even without their sparse radio contact, that the Satedan will be able to follow the perfectly clear trail he and the Wraith have bodgered through the forests of the night.

xxxx

The trail is far too easy to follow, even in the dark of the night. Ronon crouches beside the path of massive hoof prints, studying the tracks cautiously. The disturbance is recent, perhaps within as little as a few hours. The individual prints span larger than his splayed fingers, indicating a monstrously sized animal. There are two distinctive sets of prints leading up and into the mountains, one slightly smaller than the other but still quite large. He mentally gauges them to be a drafter breed of some form. Where the ground is soft enough to hold a decent print, Ronon notes the sharpness to the indentations from steel or iron shoes, which, coupled with the direction both animals appear to be moving in, suggests that these are in fact the mounts of his prey.

Ronon slithers through the woods with a silent stealth that seems unusual granted his size and muscles. Seven years on the run taught him well. He steps evenly and softly upon his feet, leaving barely an impression upon the ground, straying to the rocks to avoid leaving any trail for their hunters to follow.

After a time, though, the hoof prints become a jumbled mess. Ronon pauses and hunkers down in the dark, pressing a finger to the edges of the prints. The upper crust of the earth is brittle and dry, frosted over to a delicate and lacy honeycomb. The spots where heavy hooves had disturbed the dirt are dusty and almost powdery, having not firmed up again from the cold. The riders have been here and quite recently.

Ronon licks his lips with anticipation before slinking down the trail after them. The steps of the horses are spread out further, indicating a faster stride, going from a meandering standstill, perhaps where they had been tied, to a few paces of a trot, before into a flying gallop into the hills and mountains. The signs all imply an abrupt haste, perhaps a fear that drives the pair up the mountains, yet no human footprints disturb the ground to suggest why. Ronon merely follows the well laid trail of the horses.

The tripwire spanning the trail is so slim and dark that the Satedan almost springs it. However, Ronon has been playing these games far longer than these hunters, and he spies it long before he could ever spring it. The wire gleams in the moonlight, sending Ronon smirking as his eyes followed the line to where it terminated in a snare loop not unlike the one he first caught McKay in. These are amateurs attempting to beat a master at his own game. However, Ronon has to admire the speed of the trap as well as the oh-so tempting trail leading towards it that might have baited lesser men.

Ronon sniffs and steals around the tripwire, cautious now and knowing that there will be more.

xxxx

The Wraith shifts their path, realigning to follow the scant scent trail or something else it has caught on the wind of the night. Sheppard wonders if, perhaps, the Wraith has altered their course through the night to avoid whatever or whoever is hunting them. A giddy, childish thrill shivers through his spine as the colonel ponders if it might be a lion or tiger escaped from one of the hundreds of zoos now not manned by any human keepers. The Wraith at his side offers no clues.

And, still, they walk, as whatever lurks beyond sight in the shadows draws ever closer, so close that Sheppard thinks when he listens, he can hear soft, hushed breaths or whispered words just over his shoulder. When he turns, he sees nothing. Just the empty, lonely trees they have passed in the dark. Whatever it is, it's good, very good, at what it does, and that fact chills the blood in Sheppard's veins, turning it to crystalline shards of ice pumping through his heart, beating ever faster. Every now and again, the colonel thinks he can see the shadows shift and move.

The trek all the trappings of a bad horror movie. Crescent moon in the sky. Miles from civilization. A hike through the woods. All alone with a monster. But, then, Sheppard recalls the "monster" is his ally and that something possibly far worse follows.

It is only when a soft, muffled sob hits John's ears that both he and the Wraith freeze and exchange glances. The sound startles and surprises both of them. It is the eerie sound of quiet crying in the distance, sending Sheppard and the Wraith down to a crouch, studying the forests of the night around them. A twig snaps behind, but the tiny sobs are coming from in front of them.

Sheppard glances to the alien at his side and flicks his fingers uphill towards the source of the crying. _Advance quietly._

The Wraith gives a simple nod. _Understood._

The two move silently through the woods, threading between the trees and moving up the incline to the noise. The crying continues, giving them something to focus on, as well as noise to mask the crinkling leaves beneath their own feet. They slink like wolves in the night, and rightly so for the predator, Todd.

It isn't long before they come across the source of the sounds. It is a small, bundled up form in a tiny clearing. The silhouette is cloaked in a heavy coat, its hooded head hung. The person shudders with each inhalation, as though utterly strung out on the raw emotions. Sheppard's heart instantly melts for whoever this stranger in the woods is, this lone survivor of a dead world lost in these lonely, silent mountains.

"Hey...." Sheppard stops and swallows, gathering himself and pushing aside his unease. "It's alright. We're here to help you..."

The hunched figure balls tighter inward on itself, shivering almost convulsively. Is it fear or the cutting cold? Sheppard cannot tell with how dark it is even under the light of the moon. He steps forward, extending a warm, compassionate hand to squeeze the shoulder reassuringly.

"STOP!"

The Wraith hisses the warning, but it is too late. The footing beneath Sheppard gives with a woody groan and a sudden kick of leaves knocked up by branches snapping under his weight. It is a trap, and the oldest one in the books. The colonel has but the briefest of milliseconds to realize this with a mental chiding before the ground disappears beneath him and his body tumbles with a lurch into the darkness below.

Sparks dance and flicker across his vision on impact in a dazzling display of lights that is likely indicative of a head injury. He lands with a hard jolt against packed earth, jarring his muscles and bones, but that is not the worst of it, as white hot pain shoots through his left leg that quickly vanish and leave him feeling numb there as adrenaline floods his veins. He screams before choking it back. Sheppard blinks in dumbfounded shock as his vision clears and settles enough for him to spy the crimson stained, finely carved and honed branch that skewers his leg just below the knee and straight through the calf. Sheppard's shaking hand reaches out to grab the thing and tear it from his leg, but either he has no strength left after their long journey to the mountains or the thing is too far in the ground. Although the relative lack of pain about the initial area of the trauma mildly disconcerts him, the fact that he cannot remove the stake is what truly horrifies Sheppard. He is rather effectively stapled to the ground by it, pinned in the deep pit and trapped.

Up above, the Wraith is having just as much trouble, if not more. As soon as Sheppard falls into the pit below, the Wraith is in motion. It has been some time since he has seen a true battle by a worthy opponent and this cowardly creature seems so meek and pathetic that it shocks the Wraith when the silhouette whips about on ready, steady legs and immediately launches an attack. The stranger wields two large, deadly looking, curved blades, sharp but blackened in the night. The edges widen at a kinked bent in the middle, bending downward like an distant hybrid of scythes and machetes. They are weapons unlike anything the Wraith has seen, uniquely utilitarian in design. That is alright; the Wraith has his own blades to wield as the shadow charges on swift legs and twists like a dervish in the dark, two straight but serrated daggers he took as trophies from the thrilling hunts of his youth. They connect with a sharp clink, an almost bright and cheery sound incongruous with the gravity of the situation, the lonely depths of the woods, and the pained grunts of Sheppard below.

Sadly, what the Wraith can never anticipate is the second figure dropping from the trees above and landing upon him with a driving force, knocking him to the ground. There is a sickening crack as his skull strikes one of the loose rocks of the mountain, but Todd is Wraith. Even brittled by the cold and its luring embrace urging sleep and hibernation, his bone structure is denser and stronger than a human. The blow is a glancing one that dazes as opposed to completely disabling. The Wraith is upon his feet in a heartbeat, shaking off the disorientation from the blow and centering himself to tune out Sheppard's groans of agony.

The two strangers are both lithe and agile, moving with the same cool grace as any of the Wraith's status. They are dressed in strange, black attire from head to toe, with loops of strings and ribbons hanging from the sides. There is nothing metallic to sound in the night or shine in the moonlight upon them. Even their blades have been blackened. Strips of black cloth conceal their faces from both sight and the cold. Their boots are so well worn that they make not a sound as the pair strikes. The Wraith allows ever subtle detail to wash over him, recognizing that it is little wonder they were so able to track them in stealth for so long but knowing they will not be so fortunate beyond this.

The smaller of the two, the crying one that had lured them into the trap, lunges low, swinging with a careful and calculating grace, while the taller aims higher. They sweep together in a practiced understanding, flanking the Wraith, both wielding the curving machetes, tucking and dodging. When one strikes lashing out towards their enemy, the other recoils, and the Wraith cannot help but recognize that these are trained and worthy warriors. It all brings a faint smile and a tickle of pleasure to the Wraith.

The two strangers in black dance about the Wraith, baiting him in their motions to lash out for them, but the Wraith is no fool. Every one of his kind is a predator born and a warrior trained. They have the advantage of superior numbers and an innate knowledge of the terrain which could even his species' advantage of natural strength. He moves carefully and on full defense, keeping himself tucked up to offer a smaller and more secure target. The pair remain equally cautious in their attacks, clearly waiting for any misstep, any miscalculation of the Wraith's to use to their advantage. They do not press more than necessary, perhaps studying him as much as he studies them for an weak point. The Wraith offers them no such opening, yielding not an inch of ground to these hunters, these dogs of the night.

Yet, they offer him no ground to take either. The pair press and drive with a honed skilled. Unease quivers through the Wraith as they dance and whirl about him, blades ever slashing and ever moving. They strike like asps, like lightning. They are quick and methodical about every move. The smaller lashes out to draw attention while the larger moves in for an attempt at a killing blow and vice versa, alternating without pattern or sense. It seems instinctive and animalistic. But their footwork and their maneuvers tell a different tale. Granted, it is a crude bludgeoning of other fighting styles that the Wraith has seen across the universe, particularly with the Lanteans, but the underlying technique is all too familiar. It is Wraith in origin, or very close indeed.

Before Todd can utilize this to his advantage, the dark shadows drift back for but a millisecond away from him. He knows this is not in yield, crouching and lowering his center of gravity to prepare for another volley that never comes. Instead, as the two bring down their blades with a flurry of motion, searing white light explodes at their feet, blinding the Wraith. He hissed in rage as the scent of scorch fills the night and blinks furiously to clear his vision, but, when the Wraith's eyes adjust once more to the dark, even just a few seconds later, the hunters are gone without a trace. They are alone once more in these eastern mountains.

The Wraith stands still for a moment, listening, taking in every subtle sound of the mountain and finding not a scant hint of motion. He sniffs at the air, sucking in as much as he can, studying the scents, tasting them, but there is nothing to be found save the retched, acrid smoke from what, upon closer inspection, appears to be a crude incendiary or flare of some kind, spent in the initial flash. The Wraith kneels to study the things but they are mostly gone, and, beyond all odds, neither has left any footprints leading away from them. The Wraith grins in delight for but a heartbeat; these _are _worthy opponents, indeed!

"Todd? You still alive up there?"

Sheppard's call jerks the Wraith's attention from his relish at the thought of these new quarry and back to the deep pit at his side. "I am."

"You mobile?"

The Wraith dips his head. "Of course."

"Good." There is a hesitation when Sheppard says that with a note of strain, along with, perhaps, a hint of shame. "'Cause I.... uh... kind of need a hand down here."

The Wraith says nothing before he nimbly jumps down and into the pit, easily landing between the spikes like the one that has pierced Sheppard's leg. He surveys the damage to his ally. Scarlet stains the tip of the wooden spike and rings the colonel's pants about the wound. The Wraith knows it is nothing compared to how freely the blood will ebb from the puncture when he removes the offending wooden. Sheppard must have foreseen this already, for the Wraith notices that he has managed to wrap his belt about his thigh and pull tightly in preparation. Under the pale moonlight, Sheppard appears pale and sickly, almost moon white, and utterly pissed. The Wraith smirks to himself ever so slightly before reaching below the man and crushing the base of the stake in his hand with a fibrous crunch.

"Brace yourself," is the only callous warning the Wraith offers before tearing the wood from Sheppard's leg.

Sheppard howls in agony before biting it back into a pained whimper and stilling himself to silence entirely, but the Wraith can see the pain written in his features. He ignores Sheppard's twisted grimaces and clenched fists to make quick work of dressing the wound as best as possible with the few scant supplies they have from the SGC. By the time the Wraith has the wound bound, the colonel has schooled his features and expression to a serious set. He nods at the Wraith in what may be thanks or acknowledgment of a job well done, but his expression remains inscrutable.

It happens so fast that the Wraith almost doesn't notice the smell until it is nearly too late. There is a coppery tang on the night and the heavy scent of iron, deliciously thick and intoxicating. Contrary, again, to the popular belief that his kind feed primarily upon the actual life and _vitae _of a human, the Wraith feed upon a combination of things both tangible and intangible, like the fat droplets slipping to the ground before him and slicking the wooden stake. It has been so very long since the Wraith last fed that even these scant traces seem an almost irresistible amuse-bouch to Sheppard as the main course. His body moves of its own accord, driven by an instinctive urge coded in his DNA to survive, to feed, drawing closer to Sheppard, his feeding hand drifting away, coiling to strike. Sheppard's heart beats thunder in the Wraith's ears as he licks his lips. The slit in his palm cracks open into a yearning maw, waiting impatiently to sup upon the injured prey and be sated once more.

"One of your friends of one of mine?" Sheppard intones strangely as his fingers probe the bandages.

The spell is broken instantly by the words as hunger is dashed away by the simple question, leaving the Wraith with a hot flush of what he assumes is shame for his foolishness. The Wraith needs Sheppard, much as the colonel needs the Wraith. He grips his hand tight, squeezing sharply upon it in self-recrimination. Fortunately, Sheppard does not notice, but the Wraith must be cautious about Sheppard now that the scent of blood is upon the air.

The Wraith jerks his head oddly, piquing Sheppard's curiosity as he responds, "Human, without a doubt."

"How can you be so sure?"

The Wraith's lip curls into a faint and mocking smirk. "They smelt delicious." When John tensed back and away, he smiles wider, allowing his pointed teeth to gloat at the jest before growing serious once more. "Two attackers. Human adult. One male. One female."

"You kill them?" Sheppard asks as he struggles to his feet.

The Wraith purses his lips and shakes his head. "No. I did not have the opportunity to dispatch them before they fled."

The colonel scowls intensely, leaning against the side of the pit and looking up for a hand hold. "I don't like it."

"Nor I," the Wraith admits with a strange look.

"I'm serious."

The Wraith closes his eyes contemplatively. "As was I."

"If they wanted to steal our stuff or kill us, they wouldn't have bolted," Sheppard assesses quickly, still looking for a handhold while the Wraith easily and almost gracefully scales the earthen walls. "They're toying with us."

The Wraith reaches down, extending a hand to Sheppard. "I would have to agree."

The hand is inviting to Sheppard, an easy way out of the pit, but, then, he tenses. It is the Wraith's right hand, his _feeding _hand that has been offered. The slit there quivers slightly, a mere tremble or perhaps nothing more than a play of the silvery moonlight upon the Wraith's pale flesh, but it is enough to make Sheppard hesitate for a moment before acquiescing. The Wraith simply hoists the colonel up by his arm, with a strength and ease that rivaled Ronon, but Sheppard is sickened by the crawling feeling of the feeding slit upon his inside of his palm, as though a tongue laps his skin eagerly. As soon as his feet touch solid ground, John jerks free of the Wraith, forcing down the white hot pain shooting through his leg. The colonel can - and _will _- walk on his own if it means he will never have to feel one of those particularly freakish hands on him ever again.

"We should continue on," the Wraith notes as Sheppard staggers back from him.

Sheppard says nothing to the Wraith, instead taking his radio. "Ronon?"

_"Yeah?"_

The colonel winces as he settles upon one of the larger, icy stone boulders to adjust the bandages and ensure they are tight. "Just had a run in with out little friends."

_"How bad?"_

That is the one thing, no matter what has happened over the years and no matter what other strengths he has seen in the Satedan that Sheppard must appreciate in Ronon. No matter what the situation, Ronon is always rather methodical in his approach, regardless of seemingly insurmountable odds about them. Ronon is a warrior through and through, and Sheppard has come to expect no less of his friend.

"Well, they're definitely not happy we're here." The colonel's fingers stray to the bandage below his knee. "Fell in a trap. My leg's kind of messed up."

_"Can you walk?"_

"I'll manage," Sheppard replies sourly.

There is a pause over the radio before Ronon admits strangely, _"Almost sprung a trap on myself. They're definitely hunting us. Trying to get us split up. Confuse us in the dark. Slow us down."_

"And they have home field advantage."

The Wraith cocks an eyebrow at the expression but makes no comment nor question. 

Sheppard sighs. "They'll be back soon. We'd better keep moving."

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes: **It's a holiday miracle, I have another chappy for you!


	4. Manifest Destiny

**CALIBER - Manifest Destiny**

Twin hunters slip through the trees and through the forests of the night. This is their territory, from the lazy, wide river to the mist laden, rounded peaks of the range. They know every bit of the mountains intimately, every deer path and every road. Long years in the wild have taught them both well. This pair own this land, holding tight to it. Every weathered and mossy boulder, every tree standing in defiance against the northern winds, every tiny bit of brush clinging to the steeper bits of slope; it all belongs to them. They keep to the high ridges, skulking in the shadows and moving with a cool grace, aware of each and every root and crack that claw out for their feet and threaten to drag them down. They scale the smoothly weathered rock faces and slink along hidden crevasses that would humble any other man and bring him low.

The pair looks down to the dead, barren trees below and to the two silhouetted strangers that dare encroach on their turf. The intruders tread so loudly, each footstep crinkling leaves and snapping twigs. They draw attention to themselves with deafening noise on an otherwise silent mountain, begging to be silenced. The hunters frown at this. These people have no right to be here, no right at all. Strangers are not welcome. This is_ their_ world, their home, and their life, and neither will allow a trespasser to threaten the safety and security the mountains have offered.

And, yet, there is the other who fancies himself a hunter as well, attempting to stalk them in the night. They are both aware of the big man's presence, no matter how quiet he believes he moves. He is good, very good, but they are better. The other strangers are an annoyance, an irritation, but this other man is a direct threat, hunting them them as much as the pair stalks him in return.

The two shadows nod silently at one another before retreating into the shadows. They know what to do. They have known for some time now. They will be swift, merciful, and exacting in their method.

xxxx

The walk up the mountain is exceedingly difficult now for Sheppard. His leg throbs with each passing step, making it harder and harder for Sheppard to stay upright. He shivers convulsively with each stride. Yet he stumbles along, staggering alongside the Wraith and swaying like a drunkard. He grits his teeth against the pain. There is no other choice, especially now that they know they are being hunted. There are no hospitals anymore. No doctors. No nurses. No advanced ground search and rescue. There is only the Wraith at his side and whatever lies beyond them in the mountains, and, so, Sheppard pushes on.

The Wraith moves cautiously now, studiously of the world around him. He keeps his predatory eyes open and always sweeping over their trail, scanning for any signs of traps. He pauses occasionally, poking at the ground or at loose twigs. Sheppard is not surprised when the Wraith springs several of these booby traps along the way easily and with a cool disregard. The traps vary in style and complexity, from more spike lined pitfalls to snares and spring loaded crossbows. The Wraith ensures that their path is safe down the mountain should they need to flee back to the river below.

While the Wraith does not say anything of it, Sheppard can feel those hungry, predatory eyes upon him, studying his increasingly staggering and uneasy strides. The sky blushes a predawn pink when Sheppard finally concedes that he can no further without any rest. He drops his pack beside him and curls up on the cold, hard ground nestled beside a large boulder while the Wraith moves silently away to keep watch. The colonel carefully sets his sidearm beside his head and in easy reach should their quarry come down for them again. The Wraith settles to fetch dry kindling to strike a small fire, but Sheppard generally ignores his presence in favor of drawing a tiny clump of dry pine needles about him for insulation. He places a limp hand lightly upon the sidearm at his side, at the ready. Then, before he can even get comfortable, the exhaustion that Sheppard had not noticed lingering beneath the now spent adrenaline creeps up to swallow him whole.

He does not even dream.

xxxx

Ronon purses his lips into a frown. The trail stops abruptly at a small, babbling stream that gurgles over the mountain and down the face towards the river below. Even the monstrous hoof prints vanish entirely. He crouches by the cool, clear water, testing it for a moment before scooping a bit of it to his lips. The water tastes crisp and refreshing to the runner, welcome after his long hunt, but the action is merely a ruse as Ronon considers the stream bed before him. There are small impressions, but nothing to indicate a direction up or down stream. The water has scoured away any trace of the riders and their giant mounts, leaving Ronon with nothing to follow save the stream the horses must have strode through.

The Satedan considers his options for a long moment as he fills a bottle with water from the stream. The trail has led uphill thus far, towards who knows what. He knows from experience that the obvious trail is usually obvious for a reason. Years on the run have taught Ronon well that appearances can be deceiving and the all too easily followed tracks may just be a ruse, luring the runner on. The hunters are baiting him, lying a careful trap for the runner. However, the runner has encountered and -at times narrowly- avoided a staggeringly increasing number of traps along the way, suggesting that the riders are protecting something uphill.

Ronon smirks to himself oddly. He knows they remain out there, even know, just beyond his senses, even if he cannot hear, see, or smell any trace of them. They leave no trail now, offer no clues, but Ronon can feel their eyes upon him. Ronon rises and heads uphill, towards the depths of the mountain range.

xxxx

Something wet and fat drops upon the colonel's cheek, wrenching him from his fitful rest. He blinks owlishly, trying to make sense of the situation before recalling his place in the cold mountains and the Wraith that should be at his side. Sheppard checks his watch and finds it to be in the late morning. At some point, heavy clouds have gathered overhead, yielding the rousing, frigid rains that now pelt Sheppard's face. He shivers against the biting, deep winter cold that has suddenly gripped the mountain with the pressing storm before gathering himself up and forcing his now stiff left leg to move. The itchy pine needles fall away, and the bitter, icy snap of the air catches Sheppard's breath and peppers his skin in goose bumps instantly.

The Wraith sits a few feet away, his back to Sheppard, unmoving. This is not strange. In fact, Sheppard has grown somewhat used to the Wraith keeping watch in this manner over their long trek from the SGC.

What doeshowever entirely disturb Sheppard is the fact that someone has clearly disturbed their makeshift camp. The Wraith's modest camp fire has obviously been recently extinguished by the sudden mountain shower, still smoldering with a few delicate wisps of smoke. Sheppard scowls to note that both his sidearm and his pack have vanished, along with the precious, detailed map Sam had provided him. The colonel immediately shifts into motion, crouching over the ground and carefully perching in the imprint of his own body to search for any clues or tracks, but their hunters are careful indeed. There are no tracks, but he knows it is the same people who dug the pitfall trap.

"Todd," Sheppard barks harshly, glaring daggers at the Wraith's back.

The Wraith does not move, does not flinch. At first, Sheppard's blood boils as he immediately assumes that the Wraith is ignoring him. He calls again, louder this time in irritation. The Wraith does not answer. However, after a tense moment, the colonel notes that the predator is frozen in place, still and rigid. Sheppard rises and lumbers over, his leg screaming in agony with each step, before reaching out and brushing the Wraith's shoulder gently with his hand. Again, the Wraith does not react at all, not even a twitch; Sheppard shudders inwardly.

_"Fuck.... is he dead?"_

Sheppard contemplates the possibility. The beast has not moved and does not appear to draw breath beneath those heavy, leather clothes. His skin appears as cold and slick as ever, but there is a brittle, gray sort of quality to it that the colonel cannot explain fully, almost ashen and dead. The blue tattoos about his eyes contrast sharply against the marble pallor of his flesh. The Wraith has already told him once that his kind are not suited to the cold nor to the winter; the colonel licks his dry, cracked lips, contemplating just how low of temperatures the creatures can survive.

John whispers hesitantly, "Todd..."

Sheppard swallows hard and shakes the Wraith sharply by the shoulder. The Wraith reacts instantly from the jarring motion, springing on the balls of his feet and throwing his weight into Sheppard, snarling through pointed, feral teeth. The pair land upon the ground with a hard thump as the wind is knocked out of Sheppard. Todd's honey golden eyes snap open, darting over the prey pinned beneath him, his feeding hand rearing back to slam in for a forceful strike.

"TODD!" Sheppard bellows in his ears.

The Wraith blinks at himself and jerks oddly. He freezes, his eyes wide, his mouth open in a tiny, startled 'o,' perhaps at himself and his action, perhaps at the colonel beneath his crushing weight. The Wraith stills his features, composing himself with a tiny, curt nod before slipping off of Sheppard. The colonel lies there for a moment, letting the chill of the ground and the rock ease the sharp pangs in his leg from the motion as well as the fresh aches and bruises from the harsh slam to the ground.

The Wraith does not face Sheppard. He stares down, instead, at his right hand, his feeding hand, opening and closing it slowly, methodically. The slit in his palm crawls and hungers for even a scant taste of the blood that is only a few feet away. The Wraith sniffs, noting the intoxicating and metallic snap of Sheppard's blood upon the air, tempting him so very insidiously. He is so very hungry now, and the urge to feed gnaws viciously at the Wraith, devouring him from the inside out. His hand moves of its own accord, twitching and begging for satiation. The Wraith clenches his fist, squeezing painfully and pointedly down upon the slit and driving the hunger back. He has waited so long for sweet vengeance; his hunger can wait longer as well to be quelled.

The Wraith closes his eyes, stating tersely, "The cold." He refuses to face Sheppard now as he observes dispassionately, "Your leg."

Sheppard blinks, dumbfounded, before actually looking down to his leg. The tumble to the ground has ripped and shifted the bandages. The fall has aggravated the wound and fresh crimson wells through the strained pants leg. The colonel nods quickly, racing to replace the bandages, pulling them up and over the wound and pressing hard upon the puncture wound. The leg cries out in agony, but Sheppard bears down on the leg to staunch the bleeding while he rips open a new bandage. Sheppard wraps his calf once more, mindful of the hungry predator in his midst.

When the worse of his task is done, the colonel snarls, "What the hell was _that, _Todd?!?"

The Wraith turns away, bowing his head and staring intently upon the ground. "You surprised me."

Sheppard scrambles to sit upright, enraged. "I... _surprised_ you?"

The Wraith is silent for a breath, reluctant in his answer. "Yes."

"Well, while you were enjoying a nice little nap, our friends came back," Sheppard growls testily as he stretches his injured leg with a wince, rubbing the tense muscles of his thigh.

The Wraith bristles for but a second before lifting his sharp and angular face, drawing a deep breath. His eyes close to narrow slits in study, tasting the scents and cataloguing them The scent is fresh and clear, perhaps no older than an hour or so, otherwise it would have been washed away with the rain. As is, there remains only faint traces of the smells as is, but the Wraith would know the unique play of scattered protein markers and pheromones anyway. Individual human identity is just as easily distinguished by scent as Wraith are within a hive, and this particular Wraith already knows them. He allows the taste, the delicate array of musk linger upon his palette, savoring the sweetness to it.

"Indeed they returned," the Wraith replies with an eerie distance to his tone before adding, "Wraith do not nap."

"Well, then, care to educate the rest of us? Because it sure as hell looking like napping to me," the colonel snaps.

The Wraith frowns. "My kind survives the cold through hibernation." He gives a subtle shiver for emphasis alone. "The temperature dropped greatly last night."

"So I noticed."

The Wraith ignores Sheppard's ill-temper, noting, "When hibernation sets in, the senses are... dulled."

Sheppard shakes his head, muttering, "Assholes took my stuff." He waves his hand at their pilfered makeshift camp. "They got the gun, the map, the tracker, everything." Sheppard sighs deeply. "Maybe they'll just leave us alone now."

"Doubtfully," the Wraith breathes.

The colonel snorts. "Yeah, probably not. But it was a nice thought." The cold slithers down his spine, and Sheppard rubs his arms dolefully. "We should get moving out. They'll be.... bolder now that we're disarmed."

The Wraith says nothing but extends a hand to help Sheppard to his feet- which is summarily refused. They have miles to go and an entire state to search for McKay, and, now, they have no food, no tools, no maps, and no compass. Sheppard glances to the heavens and to the rolling gray clouds that circle overhead as a cutting wind howls over the mountains. The odds are stacked quiet heavily against them, but Sheppard has never been one to bow so easily to odds and statistics alone. At the very least, Sheppard can take comfort in the fact that the movement will keep his blood flowing and his body warm.

xxxx

Ronon follows the stream uphill for hours even as a freezing rain batters him. The damp cold sinks in, cutting straight to the bone, but the Satedan has seen and felt worse. He simply puts it far from his mind, monitoring his physical condition as the temperature continues to plummet with a clinical disconnect wrought from years on the run from the Wraith. Ronon knows better than to dwell upon the physical discomfort. There have been harsher winters and wilder storms in Ronon's opinion, and he knows he can soldier on through it after his quarry for far longer.

It is so overcast, with such watery, pale light, that Ronon almost misses the trip wire along the side of of a sheer rock face entirely. Unlike the other trip wires he has so easily avoided, this one blends in miserably well amid the dried leaves and thick, sludgy mud of the mountain side. Ronon crouches beside it to study the trap, intrigued by it. This gossamer strand runs not to a snare, pitfall, or other implement of either bludgeoning or stabbing like the other traps. No, for as Ronon follows the barely visible path of the line to the base of a thick oak, he spies where the line connects with a thin, metal, quarter-sized ring partially buried under a pile of dried, brown leaves. Ronon furrows his brow and oh so gingerly brushes the leaves aside to reveal a small metallic square that he recognizes easily from his time with the Lanteans. Explosives. When he glances to his side, he spies the telltale signs of another carefully concealed incendiary. The lines thread delicately about Ronon in an elaborate web, radiating forward, both spanning the trail in spots as well as running down and below the leaves at the Satedan's feet to where pressure triggers most assuredly hide. Upon glancing to his side, the runner notices the rather precarious perches of the rocks upon the ledge to his side, boulders that would undoubtedly come crashing down in the event of an explosion.

Ronon frowns at this new discovery and the information it yields to him in concern. The other traps have been relatively crude yet effective compared to this, designed to scare and intimidate, really, Ronon realizes, sending a rather stern warning to stay away from these mountains, while this sophisticated rig is meant to strike nothing less than a crippling or killing blow. The trap is most certainly human in design, as well. However, the subtly of construction as well as the complicated design yield clues to the person who left the trap. This is an intelligent and cunning hunter, one driven to desperation. The sudden severity of execution compared to the other traps that little the mountains also indicates that Ronon is close now.

"Sheppard, you there?" Ronon calls over the radio to share these suspicions.

No one answers; his repeated calls are met only by a crackling hiss of dead air.

xxxx

They walk for hours through the lonely mountains as the rain slowly tampers to a fine, clinging mist. It is late enough in the fall that few animals dare tread, and those that do scurry about under the blanket of fallen leaves and pine needles or dart in between chunks of loose rock. The silence of the mountains is deafening and almost frightening in a way.

The Wraith moves cautiously now, still searching for traps but slower even than before, allowing for frequent rests. A part of Sheppard flickers with annoyance at the Wraith's poorly hidden mockery of concern for his physical health, at the feigned excuses the Wraith has made for the colonel to sit and take the weight off his injured leg. Still, for the most part, Sheppard wholeheartedly welcomes the brief respites, yet he will never admit this to his unusual traveling companion. His strength wanes from the wound and the blood loss, sending occasional dizzy spells swirling through his mind and graying his vision over, but Sheppard does not want the Wraith to know this just yet.

On one of their many stops, Sheppard takes the brief opportunity to scan the barren lands below. From their higher vantage point, Sheppard can spy the dully gleaming river through the bare trees snaking through the mountains, as well as the beginnings of New Jersey just beyond the Delaware. The cloud cover is too thick to spy any hive activity or darts lingering above the Garden State, but Sheppard knows they remain even now. A heavy, blanketing fog covers much of the mountains on the other side of the river, obscuring any signs of other survivors hiding among the rock crags on the other side.

What he can see, however, is nothing short of heartbreaking. It is not nearly as stomach churning as the carnal pit, but it somehow worse in a way. Just upriver from the white spanning bridge of the Delaware Water Gap lies the broken, charred skeleton of a small town. Perhaps it is seeing such stark destruction under the light of day as opposed to seeing the refuse pit under the shadow of night that makes it so somber. Walls of brick appear to have clattered down from the facades of what had once been an otherwise normal Main Street, America. The houses are nothing more than exposed, blackened frames. Sheppard ponders silently what may have happened, if it were from the Wraith, the raiders, or perhaps internal conflict stemming from three years of living in constant fear of a culling. He looks down, wondering distantly with a deep regret just how much of this could have been avoided if the SGC and the government had just been honest with their people from the beginning. Perhaps, then, the population might have been at least slightly prepared for fending off a Wraith attack or escaping a culling. This tiny town serves as a bitter reminder that the _entire_ country has been bled dry, not just Chattanooga and the SGC. Sheppard cannot help but feel a twinge of responsibility.

When the Wraith pointedly offers his left hand to help Sheppard up this time, the colonel grudgingly accepts the assistance without a word. The Wraith has been keeping a sort of vigil upon Sheppard for some time now, since they woke and resumed their trek. The predator has kept a keen ear trained on the colonel at all times, listening to the rapid yet soft pulse, fluttering like hummingbird wings. It merits a small measure of respect in the Wraith that the human is able to guard his pain and symptoms so well.

They hike until what appears to be dusk when the Wraith gestures to Sheppard a tiny, sheltered clump of pine trees. It is too damp to start a fire, but the fallen pine needles will insulate their bodies from the cold earth below while the fresh boughs overhead will protect them from some, if not all of the arctic drizzle. Sheppard approves, hoping that the greenery will conceal their presence from any passing darts or from the hunters, even as both he and the Wraith scatter fresh leaves over their trail behind them. Sheppard curls up cautiously on his good side while the Wraith hunkers down as well below the pine. Sheppard passes out, completely dead to the world, before the Wraith can say another word.

The Wraith purses his lips in an odd sentiment alien to him. He crouches and slinks below the pine to Sheppard's side. The colonel breathes in tiny breaths, his heart still hammering away in the Wraith's ears. His skin blushes a shade lighter in the dim light. The predator frowns. Weakness does not become a warrior like Sheppard, no matter how much the man is concealing it. He slips from beneath the pine trees.

The Wraith sniffs the air distastefully; Sheppard will make fitting bait.

xxxx

Ronon contemplates his decision carefully before slipping back down the mountain towards where he last saw Sheppard and Todd. He is so close now to these hunters that it is almost too tempting, but the radio silence is too disconcerting. Granted, any number of foolish and insignificant things could have happened, but it is highly unlike Sheppard to fail to make radio contact for so long. Something may very well be wrong, and the runner knows this as he begins to follow the stream back downhill. Ronon will follow the crisp water to his own trail and pick up Sheppard's trail, just to be sure.

xxxx

Sheppard sleeps fitfully, his dreams plagued by dark shadows skulking about him, circling and striking like venomous asps. As they draw close, they take shape and distinctive form, but never the same attacker twice. Sumner first, accusatory and full of nothing but pure hatred. Elizabeth, her eyes sorrowed and cheeks tear stained with betrayal. O'Neill, his face slack with a grievous disappointment and shame. Michael, bloodthirsty and calculating as ever. The Queens, posed over him and purring their sweet nothings before striking. Todd, quiet and contemplative as ever in his motions as his hand tears through Sheppard's chest with a meaty crunch. He rockets awake at the last one to a world of darkness, blinking to clear his slumber blurred vision. Countless glittering stars gleam overhead between the remaining rain clouds and the pine boughs, shattering the last remnants of the nightmare.

The colonel licks his dry lips and glances about in the darkness for anything that vaguely resembles his unsavory companion, finding nothing. He clambers to his feet awkwardly, his left leg tense and almost rigid from the cold and the gaping wound. The colonel eases two of the branches apart the scan the dead forest about him, expecting to see the Wraith sulking close by and finding only a lonely darkness and towering, vile patches of slick shadows.

Deep instincts stir to instantly grip Sheppard deathly tight, strangling the colonel and smothering the otherwise natural urge to call out to the Wraith in the nothingness of the night. His heart, however, slows and stills to a perfect patience and alert readiness. The Wraith are not a species known for harboring intense loyalty, and this particular specimen is no exception to the rule. However, Sheppard knows that he has not served Todd's purpose and that the Wraith would not so lightly abandon as powerful a bargaining tool as the colonel. Nothing feels right about the situation at all. He cannot know for certain, but the utter wrongness of the situation screams shrilly in the back of his consciousness, shrieking and protesting violently against any sort logic or rational.

A twig snaps just beyond Sheppard's range of sight in the filtered moonlight, echoing harshly in his ears with a treble crack. The woods, however, remain ominously silent and still. Not a shadow stirs, as though the forest its self pauses on bated breath in sweet anticipation. Even Sheppard holds his breath subconsciously, his chesting tightening as he watches intently from where he crouches beneath the downy pine boughs.

At first, there is nothing, not a sound and not a breath. The entire universe stops on a dime and condenses down to just this minute existence of the woods, to the singularity of Sheppard's breaths and heartbeats. The forests yawn about him expectantly in an unnatural calm that Sheppard knows precedes the coming storm. That is quite alright with Sheppard this one time. Let it come. This pointless game of cat-and-mouse and the Wraith's constant toying have worn his patience far too thin. He waits with the world for a sound, for a sign, for anything.

His wish is answered in short order, for, even as Sheppard watches, a shadow detaches from the rest. A pool of darkness skims away from the trees with a careful grace, feet shifting silently and tracelessly over the brittle leaves. The shape is difficult to distinguish from the trees, a shifting and almost amorphous clump of a deeper dark. It is such an odd shape that, at first, Sheppard ponders if it is some new sort of alien beast unleashed by the Wraith that hunts him so. Then, a slender strand of darkness extends from the silhouette, gracing the ground with tiny digits, a gloved hand, and Sheppard realizes it is a person, or a Wraith, perhaps concealed in an excellent ghillie suit, or so it seems.

Sheppard waits as the figure draws closer, slipping over the ground easily and within reach. The agony of his leg is forgotten as the colonel steadies himself, recoiling back. He will need to be fast and cunning.

The figure reaches down and prods at the leaves that the wayward travelers had used to conceal their path. Sheppard holds his breath, watching as the silhouette reaches down to the cold earth, to the footprints and phantom traces they have left. This hunter is not fooled, not by a long shot. The dark head snaps up and, although Sheppard cannot see them in the dark, he can feel predatory eyes upon him in an instant. The hunter sees him beneath the pine with eyes long adjusted to the night.

His body moves beyond his own accord in a sudden, feral need to be free of these sadistic hunters, hurtling himself at the shadow. As soon as his hands connects with the unusual shape and locate the bony, knotted shoulders, Sheppard knows for a fact it is a ghillie suit, tapestried with bits of grass and leaves and something silken as well. Yet the form beneath it is surprisingly slight and thin, now that it longer bears the illusion of bulk and muscle. The silhouette gives and shifts beneath him as Sheppard pounces, slamming the body to the ground. There is a puff of exhalation upon impact from the hunter but nothing else, not a grunt or oaf as Sheppard would have expected granted the force he exerted. Sheppard does not allow the momentary surprise to blind him, however, moving swiftly to pry at the woven ghillie suit and catch something, anything to hold this attacker down but finding nothing but more camouflaging there. The person beneath him writhes and kicks, but Sheppard throws his weight across the stranger, pinning to the ground. His leg cries out in agony, but Sheppard bites it back.

"Who are you?" Sheppard demands in a nearly toxic hiss.

There comes no answer.

"Where's Todd?"

Again, there is no reply. Nothing. Years of Pegasus villains have accustomed Sheppard to enemies hurling snarled insults and pathetic, vain threats, so much so that an entirely silent combatant startles Sheppard entirely. Only Ronon is this quiet.

Sheppard draws up on the shoulders of this stranger and slams down hard against the cold stone to emphasize his question. "What do you want from us?!?"

The stranger remains unearthly silent and tense beneath him, forcing Sheppard to still for a moment, before sighing. He turns his head away for but a second to scan the lonely woods for Todd, and that is all the opening this hunter needs. Something hard and blunt cracks against Sheppard's temple with an inky blur. The hunter knocks Shepprd back, springing back on its heels and crouching like a wild cat before the colonel. His head pulses with a dull ache as something warm rolls down the side of his face. It takes John a millisecond to spot the arched kukri with its blackened blade in the night, as well as the butt of the hilt that now glistens slightly from what is a bit of his own blood from the blow. The stance is low and secure, but animalistic and wild, while the kukri is held soundly and steadily.

Sheppard jerks back slightly, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. His mind reels and tumbles over what the Wraith has told him. Human. These hunters are human. He may not be able to see the face shrouded beneath whatever unusual camouflage the stranger wears, but it is indeed a human, a person driven to some desperate means in a world savaged by the Wraith. He stumbles back slightly, mindful that what people left alive have not survived by chance, having found what forgotten traces of wilderness still left encoded in their genes. There is no telling what drove this particular specimen and its companion to turn so violent, and, while Sheppard likes to think he could never allow himself to change so, he remembers that he has not seen the same horrors as the people the Atlantis expedition left so vulnerable and exposed.

"Look, I didn't mean to hurt you." He easily keeps his face as soft as his words as he speaks soothing utterances of apology, maintaining a perfectly cool facade. "I'm sorry." The facade nearly shatters when Sheppard spots a gleam of pale shimmer in the night behind the shadow, but he quickly recovers. "You just.... surprised me."

The Wraith is swift as it surges to action from behind the hunter. Sheppard has very rarely had the pleasure of watching one of his kind battle in hand to hand combat in any appreciative sense. Todd's every move is a poetic symphony as he shuffles loose the black void that has concealed him for so long, throwing out his left hand to catch the hunter's right hand and the kukri in one, while his right hand- his feeing hand- reaches for a horrific moment to come crashing down upon the stranger's chest before diverting course and catching the hunter by the neck.

"TODD!" Sheppard barks, his voice cracking like a whip.

The Wraith stands tall and proud, hauling his prize up and off its feet. The shadow jerks and kicks feebly in the Wraith's grasp, clawing at the hand that clutches its neck. It makes not a sound. Not a grunt. Not a curse. Not the scathing insult or hot oath swearing to exact a terrible revenge as Sheppard knows he would have issued. The shadow remains quiet and concerted somehow, calm.

Were Sheppard not already so perturbed by the thought, his hackles might not have been so raised, and he might never have heard the snap in the woods, a distant, clear twang that sends the colonel scrambling. He launches himself at the Wraith, ducking his shoulder low and tackling both predator and prey to the ground in a jumbled heap. The Wraith howls sharply in what could be pain, but, when the bodies all jump away from one another, Sheppard spies the rage in the Wraith's face as the pointed features scowl at the thin, silver shaft jutting from his shoulder. The Wraith reaches behind his shoulder, grips the bolt, rips it out of his flesh with a grimace and is on the attack once more in a somehow sinuous motion, prowling after this first attacker even as it casts the metal stained with black, sickly ichor aside to Sheppard's feet. The colonel glances down, noting the obviously human manufacture to the modern crossbow bolt before studying the direction it came from and finding nothing in the lonely trees.

As the Wraith skulks towards the hunter, drawing his own blade, Sheppard reaches down and takes up a long, heavy branch, feeling the reassuring heft of the sodden wood. The predator may wish to dispatch this human interloper that has plagued them so well, but Sheppard has no intention of harming anyone if he does not have to. These people, no matter how crazed or how violent, are nothing but victims of the Wraith and their blood thirsty conquest.

The Wraith and Sheppard advance together as a pair, perhaps even as a team, driving and circling about the silhouette still in their midst, ever mindful of the second hunter on the prowl now. The Wraith lunges first as the shadow cautiously recoils, driving the dark figure closer to Sheppard. The colonel has only the branch to swing with, but he lets loose with a tremendous venting force. The hunter merely twists and dodges easily like a cat, slashing out with the arched kukri and cleaving the damp branch in two, leaving precise edges. Sheppard lets the wood slip through his fingers to the ground with a thump as the shadow spins on its heels like a whirling dervish after the Wraith. The finely honed blade cuts through the air, but the Wraith narrowly dodges, connecting harshly with his own blade and grinning madly from ear to ear with those pointed, vile teeth.

With the hunter distracted once more, Sheppard leaps out towards it, careful and low as Ronon has always taught him. He keeps himself crouched as he moves, slipping his knife from its place at his side, the one weapon the hunters could not grift so simply the night before. Sheppard moves for the stranger's leg with his left arm, feigning a thrust with the blade in his right. As the silhouette swings around to Sheppard again, it is just enough motion to throw the hunter's weight slightly off balance, more than enough of an opening for Sheppard to hook his arm about the stranger's thin leg beneath the ghillie suit and haul back. The colonel drags on the hunter's knee, knocking the hunter down.

The Wraith snarls as it draws near with a heartbeat of a step before the second hunter slips from the night and the void its self behind the alien beast. The second shadow is larger than the first, but Sheppard knows from the twisting form beneath him, from the scratching sensation of dried leaves and grasses woven into the ghillie, that size with these two is merely an illusion. There is a flicker of motion as a black crossbow is aimed, bolt draw and ready. The widening of Sheppard's eyes alone is more than enough to warn the Wraith, and Todd whips about after this second figure. The Wraith is faster than the hunter seems to have anticipated, even injured, his hand crushing the delicate frame of the crossbow with seemingly minimal effort. The hunter, however, is just as ready as the first is, drawing two of his own kukris.

Sheppard focuses his attention back on the hunter he has tackled to the ground, the supposedly slighter of the two, as it strains against him, attempting to free its self and swing the devilishly sharp blade right for Sheppard's neck. The colonel snatches the shadow by the wrist, slamming it down to the hard packed, frozen earth and rocks.

"STOP!" He orders sternly, slamming his weight down upon the hunter. "My name is John Sheppard," the colonel snarls, unable to hide his own anger and haste now. "I'm looking for someone named McKay. Rodney McKay." The shadow stills slightly beneath him, and Sheppard takes this as a sign to go on. "He's at someplace called Foothold. Have you heard of it or him?" Sheppard swallows hard. "Can you take me there?"

The shadow answers in its own way, kicking up on the wound to Sheppard's leg and igniting a whole new fire of agony blazing through his frayed nerves. The colonel loosens his grip, and it is more than enough for the hunter to shuffle a hand free, grab a fist sized rock, and smash it directly into Sheppard's temple. Sparks dance across his vision, sending him staggering back as the world greys and blurs around him, as the Wraith and his quarry, still locked in combat bleed into the background. After the second strike, however, darkness takes him entirely and the world bleeds away.

The Wraith catches the sound of Sheppard's limp body slipping to the ground beneath the damned hunter, along with the motion out of the corner of his eye, but he has more pressing troubles at the moment. The hunter he faces is swift and well trained in both the combat techniques of the Wraith as well as various styles which the Wraith can only assume are of an Earthly origin. This poses both concern and intrigue. The larger hunter seems well prepared for each of the Wraith's motions as the predator skulks through the night and through the motions of attack and recoil. The shadow moves in an unheard, unscripted ballet, dancing about the Wraith with little effort as Todd lunges and withdraws. Their blades meet with downright chipper clacks with each slash and stroke. They are evenly matched, yet neither will back down, constantly throwing themselves at the other.

The second hunter, the slighter of the two and the one who had so skillfully and easily incapacitated Sheppard stalked closer, circling the match. The Wraith inhales deeply as a reeling kick brings him close to this smaller silhouette, drawing in the scent with his facial slits like a snake. The female. She lingers just beyond the fight, observing in patience for a moment while the male's blades silently cut through the night. The Wraith wonders what she thinks of him as another driving blow of the male sends him stepping back towards her, ever mindful of her presence in the background.

Then, as the female sinks low on her illusory frame, the male sweeps back in a spinning motion towards her, drawing the Wraith near. As he passes her, the female springs into action, swooping to the other side of the Wraith in an elegant flurry of motion, poetic between the two, leaping into a graceful but deadly pas de deux. Now, the blows are no longer held. The motions remain practiced and almost rehearsed in a lethal ballet of blades, yet the intent is quite clear as the kukris skirt ever closer to the Wraith with each deflected blow. They intend to kill him and quite quickly if possible.

The male kicks out for a moment, sending a small spray of pebbles at the Wraith. It is nothing that should bother nor harm him, yet the sudden added motion in the night sends Todd's gaze jumping to and fro, leaving a small opening for the female to advance on his other side. Her blade cuts low, sweeping over the ground in a wide arc as she steps closer and spins on her heel over the loose shale, but Todd jerks away before the female can drive the blow home. The edge of the kukri skims over the Wraith's right arm just above his wrist, clearly meant to cleave the feeding hand from his arm. As in, the knife rips a deep gash through his leather coat and arm, splattering black ichor upon the ground.

The Wraith snarls in rage and blind bloodlust. He has been so cautious until now, keeping his own motions and attacks guarded and restrained, hoping to disarm these humans and send them on their way alive, preferably with their tail set rather firmly between their legs. Sheppard would not approve of murdering these two, and the Wraith needs him to get close to McKay. However, the lancing pain of the injury, no matter how superficial to his species, sends the Wraith over the edge. He cannot hold back the hunger any longer now as it consumes him so thoroughly, burning through every fiber of his being. Crimson stains his vision as he moves with impossible speed, throwing himself at the female mindless of her weapon nor the other hunter. He tackles her to the ground, knocking her down with a simple motion and pressing into her. His feeding hand tears at the unusual garments that enshroud her frail frame, ripping down to the pale, moon white flesh and spying the obvious scars upon her sternum and chest, the scars of feeding, amid a thin circle of angular pattern in dark blue, almost black ink upon her skin.

The Wraith's eyes go wide, and he hisses through his teeth in surprise and shock a word which tastes utterly vile upon his tongue. "_Skrae_."

He never sees the male draw close once more before striking one last time.

xxxx

Sheppard awakes slowly, dawning on subtle sensations in tiny snippets. The ground feels cold and frozen beneath him now, more in matching with the frozen winds. The rough but strong cords that secure his hands burn against his wrists. The blindfold across his eyes itches terrible, as though burlap or some other awful, coarse fabric that has no business on human skin. The Wraith beside him groans unseen. A horse nickers deeply. At first, these small clues offer no concept of what has happened or what is currently happening, but, after a time, Sheppard's mind lurches into action, putting everything together rather succinctly. They've been captured, caught off guard by their hunters and taken unaware.

The colonel shifts his weight to sit upright, groaning as his leg moves and as momentarily dizziness floods through him; the Wraith must hear him as he calls, "John Sheppard?"

"Yeah," the man croaks in response. "What happened?"

The Wraith chuckles mirthlessly. "I should think that is obvious by now."

Before they can continue their halting, stumbling chat, the lines on the cord about Sheppard's wrist is pulled tightly from above, hauling him to his feet. Sheppard listens as the Wraith moves, his leather coat creaking almost with the motion. Heavy hoofbeats turn away from them and the cords are pulled. At first, Sheppard digs his feet in, but the pull is too strong to be overcome. Likely the cord has been secured to the saddle, allowing the horse to exact all of the brute force. Before Sheppard feels himself pitch forward, he follows, knowing it is his choice now to either go with them willingly until such time as he and the Wraith can break free, or be dragged to near death on the harsh, jagged rocks of the Pennsylvania mountains. It is all too easy a choice to make.

The hike is nothing short of misery now for Sheppard now that these hunters drag him so mercilessly by his raw, aching, bleeding wrists. The cords cut viciously into his inflamed flesh, digging in with each and every jerk of the bonds by their captors. Rocks and roots claw for him like a thousand clinging hands reaching from the darkness of the blindfold, and Sheppard frequently stumbles, crashing to the hard, unyielding ground. A myriad of fresh bruises throb through him with each tumble. He passes the time and bites back the pain by alternating swearing, mocking, and arguing with no answer. His head throbs with every heartbeat as the pressure builds to a blinding migraine, competing with his growling stomach, parched throat, and gaping leg wound for attention.

The mountain trail is unforgiving at best. Their captors may seem to know every subtle nuance to the land, but this remains alien territory to Sheppard. The blindfold disorients him, and, despite his best attempts at keeping track of their heading, Sheppard has become inexorably lost mentally. There is no telling now where these hunters are taking them as their path becomes steeper and rockier with each passing step. The dehydration only serves to further disorient Sheppard in his failed attempts to both map their journey as well as anticipate any potential hazards in the trail ahead. Even the horses sound as though they are having their fair share of occasional troubles, their metal shoes clacking and rasping against the loose shale and pebbles that slip beneath them.

The Wraith remains disturbingly silent for a long time.

Sheppard ignores that for some time, focusing instead on placing one foot safely in front of the other. His left leg aches and flashes with searing pain with each step, but the colonel just tightens his jaw and tries desperately to push that aside as well. He moves with a shuffling gait, slipping his feet over the ground to feel the shifts in elevation and terrain _before _tumbling over them. It is no easy task with his hands fettered so and with the hunters hauling him so forcefully, but Sheppard manages as best he can, all things considered, taking solace in the fact that every stumble, every fall and every drag of his feet adds to an easier trail for Ronon to track.

John used to enjoy hiking, very much so, but not now. He recalls long trips spent through his life wandering the last great wildernesses of the world, losing himself and losing civilization. The first time Sheppard took one of his little walkabouts, he was five; his mother had a fit, thinking he'd been kidnapped or lost when the young John Sheppard had merely wandered off to an old, abandoned farm about a mile away from the house. Since then, it has been a love affair of his. Out there, in the wild, there are no rules, no stuffy regulations and overwound commanding officers. There is only the land spread out welcoming before his feet, entreating him, beckoning him to keep going, to run for that horizon. It is why Sheppard became a pilot; so he could actually chase the sun and catch the stars that had always remained just beyond his reach as a child. A part of him has always wondered if this is why he does so intrinsically understand Ronon.

Sheppard's mind wanders in the all encompassing darkness and void of the blindfold. Displaced Cherokee indians in hazy, autumnal oil paintings in battered high school history texts cry out to him as they walk to their deaths. The tortured stares of innocent Afghani victims of America's lofty but valiant war on terror accuse him directly. As his mind turns over and over again, the victims become his captors, these hunters concealed from his sight morph into the insurgents that pulled him from the downed chopper before setting him down on his knees, binding his hands behind his back and pulling a coarse sack over his head. Memories flicker and flare through him, constantly dragging him back to the desert, to the hot, acrid taste of the air and to the gun at the back of his head. He can almost feel the heat of the sun beating down upon him under the burlap that Sheppard logically knows is not there this time, as well as the pressing snub of a pistol muzzle at the base of his neck. Sheppard shudders inwardly at the though, of waiting for someone to just get it over with, put an end to the misery of that dreadful anticipation, and pull the trigger already.

He must pause for too long, for the hunter gives a jerk on the cord, and Sheppard crashes to the ground. His leg collides sharply with a rock, sending new torment through him with electric spark. He howls out in rage and pain, unable to control it. When Sheppard stills, a warmth spreads over his leg, seeping through the bandages and trickling down the side of his calf.

There comes another harsh tug through the cord, and Sheppard stiffens and strains against the lashing, breathing, "No."

The hunter pulls once more, but, to Sheppard's eternal surprise, the Wraith hisses to his defense, snarling, "He cannot walk any further. He is badly injured."

The answer is simple and direct with another harsh pull upon the cord, stretching Sheppard's arm tautly before him. The Wraith snarls like a feral beast, and there comes the strange, jarring sounds of sharp motion, swift. The pressure upon Sheppard's wrists eases for a moment as the Wraith grunts with effort and a soft thump meets Sheppard's ears. The colonel cannot help but smile in satisfaction upon realizing that the Wraith has pulled the offending, hasty rider to the ground. The sentiment is short lived, as a short scuffle ensues. Sheppard struggles desperately to follow the sounds of the fight. Sheppard blinks under the itchy blindfold, staring up from his place sprawled on the ground into the darkness. He cannot see what is happening around him, nor make any sense of the noises. There is a scuff of feet upon loose shale and the rattle of pebbles shifting underfoot. He twists his head from the left to the right, hoping to catch enough of the sounds to make sense of the motions before everything goes still and silent once more.

The Wraith growls indignantly once more, his voice strained as though under duress or perhaps the finely honed edge of one of those kukris. "Help him."

That seals the deal, convincing Sheppard that he has, in fact, finally died and gone right to Hell- and that Hell is located somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania. He chortles to himself, a rattling sort of uncomfortable noise. He has always thought Hell on Earth was either some place like Detroit or Camden, or maybe just DMVs in general. There is no other possible explanation for a Wraith - even Todd - to beg for mercy for a human.

To his shock however, a strong set of hands reach down, grabbing him firmly by the wrists and holding as the bindings were loosened. The rope sticks to him where his flesh is raw and ripped from hours of twisting against them. It is a minor and transient relief when the chilly, fall air hits the abrasions. The feeling, however, is mighty short lasted as strong hands hefted John off his knees and to his feet. He struggles, bucking and writhing against the unseen hunters, but at least one of them is far stronger than he, perhaps stronger than Ronon even. They hoist John to his feet and up for a dizzying moment until the colonel realizes he has been forced into a saddle. Two hands grab his wrists, pulling them down and holding them in place as fresh lashes pull about them tightly. When the hands finally release him, Sheppard pulls at the ropes, but they do not give even an inch. In fact, it only serves to shred his mangled wrists further. He slumps in the saddle, letting his fingers explore the ropes but finding no discernible knots in the darkness of the blindfold. He shifts in the warmed leather seat uncomfortably twisting his wrists and finds heavy stirrups dangling beside his feet as hands move about him and a second weight climbs nimbly up behind him. One arm snakes about him, likely to take the reins, while another presses into his chest, holding him against whoever it was behind him. Sheppard stiffens, but the hand moves no further as the stranger clucks, squeezes their legs, and asks the horse to walk on.

They ride now, deeper into the wild and further from any sense of civilization, until Sheppard dozes in the saddle, lulled by the gentle, soothing sway of the horse's broad shoulders.

xxxx

After an exceedingly long time spanned only by the monotonous sounds of the two horses and the Wraith trailing behind, the riders stop, and Sheppard bolts upright in the saddle against the unknown and otherwise silent rider behind him. No one says a word, not even the Wraith. They sit in wait, an uncomfortable and roaring silence screaming between Sheppard and the hunters. The horse beneath them shifts its weight and adjusts its footing in unease, chewing on the bit with a soft jingle.

The blindfold at Sheppard's eyelids has grown unbearably irritating. He cranes his head forward, nudging at his shoulder to rub his eyes beneath the coarse fabric and relieve the scratchy sensation. The blindfold actually gives slightly to Sheppard's surprise, leaving a tiny sliver of searing daylight. Sheppard squints under the wrap, savoring the sudden view, no matter how it burns his eyes after so many hours in the dark.

They are still in the mountains, in a valley before an impressively steep peak compared to the rounder hills all around. The sun sinks slowly behind it, staining the twilight overhead a rust color and painting the mountains in a sickly blood red. Clouds dapple the sky in radiant, neon pinks and deep, bruised purples, the sort of elaborate winter clouds that herald snow on the way. Wide trails scar the barren, dormant forests up the side of the peak. The long paths look like overgrown logging roads, but Sheppard cannot be sure from his vantage point.

Sheppard glances down to his hands curiously. His wrists bear a sheen to them that Sheppard recognizes is from the blood and the raw patches. The black cords about them are thin but strong, a climbing rope of some form. The hunters have lashed his hands apart from one another, fixing them about the d-rings to the western saddle along separate loops of cord and tying in the center of the saddle about the pommel. He strains for a moment, but the ties are well out of reach of his prying fingers. There is little hope of him working his way loose of those secure knots and absolutely no chance Sheppard will be able to untie himself.

The colonel sighs, slumping in the saddle. A noise to his side draws his attention, and Sheppard turns his head ever so slightly to spot the Wraith, blindfolded and bound with his hands behind his back. They have been hauling him by a thick, braided steel cable about his neck this entire time. The creature hunches its shoulders, his head hung as though bearing the weight of the world upon him in a way that is unbecoming of Todd. A patch of slick dribbles down the back of the Wraith's leathery jacket. Sheppard says nothing, despite how it stirs strangely in him. Surely the Wraith should have healed by now, but, as Sheppard's stomach growls in sympathy, the colonel recalls that he has yet to see Todd feed upon anyone. The Wraith cannot heal, and something about that disturbs Sheppard immensely.

Something beeps in his ear, sending the colonel's muscles tightening for a moment, but instantly easing when he recognized what sounded all too familiar, like a radio transmitter. There is another painfully long moment spent standing idly in the frigid, lonely mountains, waiting for something, for anything. The horse beneath him stamps, shifting its weight and sending fresh aches through Sheppard's leg as it chews impatiently upon the with a soft, metallic jingle. Even the rider behind Sheppard stiffens with keen and almost palpable anticipation.

Then, with an earsplitting crackle of radio interference, a gruff male voice spoke just behind Sheppard's shoulder, _"Confirmed. Proceed to QT, await instructions."_

xxxx

The forests tell a grotesque story, written in the faintest of traces. The subtly darkened tinting to the leaves indicating they have been turned and disturbed, the faintly damp glisten to a small chunk of rock suggesting it has been splashed with water, the minute lines scraped in dust trails along the hard packed ground painting a dance of combatants. Ronon crouches in the middle of it all and closes his human mind to the foray, allowing the deeper, instinctive and animal part of his mind to study. His eyes crawl over the land, to the tiny depression of browned needles beneath a grove of pine trees, roughly the size of a man, with a faint peppering of dark red speckles. He skims over the scene, tracking the motion of the man by the ordered, neat impressions of booted feet that Ronon knows to be Sheppard. The only other footprints are left by boots he knows are Wraith in design; Todd. They circle and swirl.

Ronon frowns. Here there had been a great, but quick fight. His fingers grace the spot where several bodies fell. The scene is confusing, coming to him in a jumble of cluttered evidence. The Satedan can usually get an immediate and clear sense of what unfolded in a particular place based off of the tracks and tiny signs left behind. However, without any sign of the hunters, there is no telling exactly what happened.

Disconcertingly, however, two distinctive sets of hoof prints approach and recede from the site of the battle, without any accompanying footprints. Neither Sheppard's combat boots nor the roughly stitched boots of the Wraith leave impressions away from the site, as though the pair have just vanished into the woods and into the night. Ronon shakes his head and follows the hoof prints to where they, too, disappear into the woods, leaving him with nothing to follow, along and abandoned on an alien world picked clean by the Wraith.

It matters not, for Ronon knows, eventually, these hunters shall return for him as well, and Ronon will be ready for them.

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes: **Yes, it can be overly flowery at times, but that's because I really wanted you to feel this ominous sort of presence that this part of America has in that strange, blurry period between fall and winter. I once got lost on a hunter pace during this time of year. There was something oppressive and downright frightening about the middle of nowhere like that, and I was kind hoping you would feel it, too.

And, by the by, thanksies for kind reviews! We feed on them like an evil, life-sucking Wraith as always! *nom nom nom*


	5. A Sorrowed Life

**CALIBER - A Sorrowed Life**

There is blood everywhere and on everything now. It seeps and soaks into the sheets and quilted blankets already dappled in hideous blooms with various colored stains that even the bleach and urine boiled down to ammonia cannot remove anymore. The water in the basin at his side swirls with languid, scarlet swirls. It sticks to his pale, calloused hands with a sickly tacky quality. He mentally calculates the downright absurd amount of blood that surrounds him now and finds his estimates to be impossibly high.

_Her_ blood.

The woman's face twists and contorts in agony. She is suffering, and there is nothing he can do to help her, to steal away her pain and at least bring her some small peace. Sweat beads her forehead in sparkling droplets in between gentle, bathing ministrations from the women at her side, holding her hands and crooning words of quiet encouragement into her ears. Her body trembles from the effort and the torment tearing through her loins, and the words fall upon deaf ears. One of her coppery hands slips down absently to brush over her stomach longingly, her eyes drifting over the great swell with a sadness to them. She has waited so very long for this child, and it is killing her slowly from the inside out.

"Tasera...." he whispers softly, stroking her cheek with a single fingertip and drawing her febrile, exhausted gaze to meet his.

She whimpers his name in a barely audible breath. "Andrew..."

"Tasera....." He wrings his hands. "Tasera...there's...." He swallows the choking lump building in his throat. "I can't..."

She gives a weary nod before patting her stomach with one hand and reach to find his with the other. "Please.... the baby.... save.... baby." Tasera blinks sluggishly, as though even the simple motion taxes the last of her energy. "Please?"

Andrew Bartlett's vision blurs from the hot tears, his heart wrenching with sorrow mixed with respect that Tasera could so knowing make such an offer. She is bleeding too heavily, her quivering body slipping into shock. The baby isn't positioned correctly, and no amount of gentle manipulation on Barlett's part has righted its course. Tasera is torn thoroughly, bleeding internally. He can do next to nothing more for her now, but there is still the thought of the unborn baby, more important than any other person in the room, Tasera included, no matter how it pains Bartlett. He has to save the child at any cost, and the woman knows this, the fact written in her every feature.

His hand moves of its own accord, reaching to his side for the silver scalpel. Her stare follows the motion before snapping up to his face. His eyes never leave Tasera's dark gaze, holding her until the very last moment, even as the luster slowly drains from them.

"Tasera..."

The woman gulps hard and gives a quick, bracing nod. "Do it."

xxxx

The riders say nothing after the transmission but squeeze their legs for the horses to walk on, up the mountain along one of the overgrown tracks. The horses step lightly now, despite the steep incline. Sheppard watches the mount beneath him bobbing its head with each stride, as though excited. The colonel has not ridden for years, but he knows the sensation of urgency in the animal well. They are approaching what the steed knows to be "home," and that simple fact spurs both mounts on.

They do not ascend to very peak of the mountain as the sun slips over the top, but to the top of this particular section, where a small shack sits. It is a crude attempt at a faux log cabin, complete with massive timbers framing the exterior. The windows are dark. The riders draw their horses up before the house, slipping from the saddle easily despite the bulk of their ghillie suits. Sheppard tenses as the larger hunter draws near, but the hunter mere hands off the reins to his steed to the smaller before dragging Todd towards the house. Sheppard strains to watch further, his throat too dry to call out to the Wraith, but the smaller rider turns the horses away, stealing Sheppard's chance of seeing what will happen to Todd. The Wraith remains silent and almost complacent to a fault, and something about that sends shivers down the pilot's spine.

The smaller rider draws the horses up to a sheltered grove of trees that conceal a makeshift shelter that is little more than a ramshackle barn. A thick blanket of hay covers the ground. The rider leads both horses in before cornering sharply and carefully about the massive, swinging haunches of the two large horses to close the long, metal gate and clip it shut. The hunter allows the reins of the unmounted horse loose for a moment to tie Sheppard's mount to a wide ring secured to one side of the pen before unbuckling the bridle of the unmounted horse and sliding it off in favor of a filthy nylon halter and lead shank. Sheppard watches curiously an intently from his spot, forgotten atop the horse as the hunter tends to the horse. By the time this hunter is finished with the first horse, the other hunter joins them, opening the gate with a metallic creak.

Sheppard tenses as both hunters turn their attention to him now; hands curl about his arms, holding him while the smaller hunter loosens the knots about his wrists. As the rope falls away and his hands sting brutally, Sheppard makes his move; he has been waiting for some time now. The colonel kicks out and throws his weight back. His booted heel crashes heavily into the larger of the two hunters as Sheppard slips out of the saddle and tumbles to the thick bed of musty hay. He is in motion immediately upon landing, scrambling back and away from the hunters through the tangled obstacle course of the monstrous, thick legs of the horses.

The smaller hunter is upon him in a heartbeat, a slender hand shooting out from beneath the ghillie suit and catching on his leg. Narrow fingers grip like talons, turning over Sheppard's calf and tightening about the bandage. Sheppard growls, twisting away and bucking, but the hand holds tight and digs into the open wound. Warmth ebbs anew from the gaping holes as fresh, bitter agony courses through Sheppard. Sheppard's vision grays and fades with the pain, his body turning limp, too raw and wrung out from the dehydration and sudden exertion to struggle anymore.

The fight drains from the colonel as the two hunters haul him up by his arms and drag him across the uneven ground to the cabin, but not the defiance that snaps and flares in his eyes and the set of his jaw. His boot toes rasped over the ground as the pair pull Sheppard roughly to the opened door to the darkened cabin and inside, through the shadows. He jerks and pulls at the hunters' holds but finds no give as they lumber about a corner and down a set of steps. Sheppard's feet thump down each and every step with a hollow thud until they hit the bottom, which feels rock solid in the dark. The hands roughly shove him up and off the ground, onto a scratchy palette before pulling his wrists up and over his head. Sheppard tugs at their hold, but the hunters hold tight as they clasp what feels like handcuffs about his left wrist judging from the clicking sound and the sudden brush of cool metal upon his skin. The colonel shudders at the thought, but the hands slip away from him and retreat to the darkness. Sheppard tests the new binding and finds that it does not give; the other cuff has been secured to chains wrapped about a thick wooden beam.

A light flares in the dark, illuminating the room in a dusky glow. His free hand reaches up to tear the itchy blindfold from his face and toss it aside to get a better look in the dim light of what appears to be a musty, old, unfinished basement replete with the almost requisite poorly painted concrete floor. Sturdy but haphazardly constructed bunks in what smells vaguely like pine line the edges of the empty space. Sheppard himself has been deposited upon one of these bunks, his hand fastened to the frame. In the center of the room, sits the Wraith, Todd, his head bowed and his hands chained behind him about a steel support column. On the far side of the room, where the two hunters in their ghillie suits linger, rests a simple, hurricane style kerosene lantern burning brightly in the dark, casting ghastly and disfiguring shadows across the hunters.

A sound jolts Sheppard's attention to the other side of the barren room as a door creaks open and an orange light pours down; a gruff voice calls down. "You two know the drill."

The hunters nod ever so slightly beneath their ghillie suits before approaching the steps with slow, even strides. Sheppard furrows his brow, rising up on his elbows to get a better look as the two warriors begin to untie the bindings of their ghillie suits. The two shadows shed their ragged, plant-festooned suits in an elegant, practiced motion and hang them on hooks on the wall. Surprisingly, despite the thick winter clothes beneath the ghillies, both appear to be much smaller than originally implied by the elaborate camouflage, slender and almost athletic in build. Their heads and faces, however remain shrouded behind wrapped, yet tattered scarfs. Beneath the ghillie suits are pants covered in mended patches, dangling ribbons and odds ties, as well as thick, knitted shirts, all in ebony and all lined with different pockets and leather sheathes. They strip themselves down carefully and cautiously, unbuckling the belts that suspend the sheaths to their maddeningly sharp kukris before placing them upon the steps. They begin to remove all sorts of pointed and deadly blades, setting them with the kukris on the smoothly worn wooden steps. When they are finished, the duo leaves an assortment of blades so diverse that even Ronon would have been utterly green with envy.

A silhouette shambles down the steps timidly with uneven steps as the two hunters back away coolly; the once rough male voice speaks in a soft, paternal sort of way to the two strangers as he collects the proffered blades. "I'll be back in a bit with something for supper, so you two jus' sit tight."

The riders slide across the floor now with a silent, almost predatory grace, floating past the Wraith and drawing his attention as they cross the room. Even Todd stares now, seething and shifting his weight in poorly controlled anger. The Wraith raises his lip in a silent, twisted snarl, but neither of the riders pay him a single hint of attention as they pass. The Wraith leans his head forward on an inclination Sheppard knows for a fact precedes a calculating blow from the Wraith's kind, whether a diplomatic or physical one. The Wraith's eyes narrow in what appears to be an intense scorn.

Sheppard glances back to the riders, watching curiously as the pair loosen the wraps about their heads. When the ragged cloths fall away, Sheppard cannot help but gasp in shock and horror. The first, the taller of the two, in indeed a male as the Wraith indicated. He is pale with rounded, almost Austrian features, with a cleanly shaven head and almost disturbingly crystalline blue eyes, despite the distance. The other is indeed female, with equally moon white, with pointed, cat-like features, and shortly cropped, almost ebony hair. Her eyes flash an emerald green. They are young, neither older than perhaps their late twenties. It is not their build, nor age, nor appearance that cuts through Sheppard, but the tattoos upon their face, that startles the colonel so. Each bears a series of angular, blue green markings upon their face that seems to twitter and dance down from the hairline over their eye and down their cheek upon the right side of their face in all too familiar style and lightning bolt patterning. Sheppard swallows convulsively, forcing his dried throat to work, knowing they can be only one thing.

"Wraith tattoos," he whispers hoarsely with a tongue that feels abruptly too large and swollen for his mouth.

The riders rather pointedly ignore him and his observation as they fold up the vestments carefully; the Wraith, however, hisses through near clenched teeth a single word as though an accusation, "_Skrae_."

John furrows his brow once more, his eyes still drawn and locked upon the scrawling Wraith tattoos that mar the otherwise marble white flesh of the two riders in matching designs. "What?"

Todd cocks his head back now, sneering in a palpable distaste. "_Skrae_." He makes a soft snort of disdain in the direction of the two strangers, and a part of John knows the Wraith would likely spit or swear if he were actually human before going on. "Among the human follows and worshipers of my kind, there are those who occupy an upper echelon of their Queen's favor. They are the _skrae_. Chosen to be marked and savored."

Sheppard flinches at the word "savored" but needs no further explanation. The Wraith are a gut-wrenchingly sadistic people. They are a densely packed commuter train jumping the rails languidly in a sinuous, waving swell. They are an atom bomb sailing through the air and dropping into the very heart of a glistening major city to swallow everything and everyone into a searing vapor cloud of coiling heat and clouds at ground zero. The sadism Wraith surely knows no bounds if they keep human pets cloistered to them to save and cherish like fine wines. The mere though is so vile that, like a trainwreck, like an atom bomb, Sheppard cannot look away, no matter how much it nauseates him at the same time.

"Did you ever....?" Sheppard croaks, almost afraid to finish the terrible question that lingers upon his tongue.

"Once." The Wraith raises his head slightly, bringing his oddly clouded gaze to Sheppard once more; then, he speaks once more, solemnly with an eerie, nostalgic reverence, "My Queen granted the gift of her _skrae _to me in gratitude for my service unto her."

Sheppard wishes to press more, to question and demand answers, to damn the Wraith and his kind for such a downright horrid practice. However, the long, trying trek through the mountains and the struggle in the barn has left Sheppard sapped, and he sinks back into the bed. He has nothing to say to the Wraith at the moment that is worth the effort. Nor is their any use struggling now, especially when the _skrae_ flop back onto the palettes to their own bunks and pay little interest to either of their trussed up captives.

xxxx

The brittlely peaceful vigilance that encompasses the entire microcosm that is the Foothold is shattered by hoarse, ragged shrieks of suffering just beyond the closed door, echoing into the rock. McKay feels the intensely guttural tenor vibrating deep within his own chest, weaving about his deepest of sympathies. Every tiny whimper of pain, every rasped breath, and especially every single scream of pure agony draws all eyes up from the filthy foot and tattered boots that the people of Foothold are so content to study in the dim lantern light. It takes every bit of McKay's will to remain seated there in the long hall with everyone else who had been so violently roused and displaced from their beds in the afternoon glimmer for this most nerve wracking of moments. McKay has never been one to sit idly by as someone close to him suffers so horribly, let alone to listen to it so near, but McKay forces himself to endure, if only for Tasera.

The pregnancy has been a difficult one for Tasera. She has not enjoyed the benefit of modern medicine, obstetrics, regular check-ups, sonograms, or even the requisite painkillers the woman so rightly deserves and needs in this obviously difficult pregnancy. These last few days have been so challenging the Rodney has even put off politicking to move from Foothold, and, by the woman's own calculations, she is perhaps a month early.

There had been a doctor at the Gap, a real doctor that McKay had hoped to persuade to deliver the baby, but, now, there is nothing for Tasera but Andrew Bartlett, the poor, young fool. Bartlett came to Foothold perhaps a year ago, a blessing really. Before Bartlett, there had been no one with any medical knowledge aside basic first aid at Foothold. The twenty eight year old had been an EMT in another life, before the Wraith came, and his skills have been invaluable since his arrival. He is no Jennifer Keller or Carson Beckett, but he is the best that circumstances have afforded. Barlett is assisting Tasera in labor as best as his limited medical experience can offer.

Tasera is only twenty five, a child in Rodney's eyes at times. She is a lanky woman, with a warmly bronze skin, a rounded face, shining dark eyes, and a caring disposition with the children of Foothold that all vaguely remind McKay of Teyla in a cruel jest of fate. It is no great surprise granted her sweet nature and her natural beauty that Tasera should have been bedding by any of the male members of the camp, but the body father has kept mercifully silent. Yet, there are moments when, judging by the furtive glances several of the men have given to Tasera's swelling belly, McKay wonders if he is the only man of Foothold _not _to have made love to the woman or hoped to through those long, lonely years in the mountains.

However, there will be no singular father or mother to this child. McKay knows this well. No matter who the father, no matter what happens, this darling child shall be loved and adored by each and every member of this cloistered little community in the mountains. The entire population loves Tasera dearly for her quiet manners, the funny tales she shares with the children, and her delicious cooking. All of Foothold has pulled together for Tasera's pregnancy, and, aside from essential watches, McKay knows the entire fifty three person population has crammed as close as possible with him to the shut, aged wooden door, eager to hear the news.

McKay glances down the long line of hunkered forms in the hall, noting the few with their hands clasped and heads bowed in murmured prayer to various gods. For once in his life, McKay cannot find any mockery to organized religion or the act of putting faith in what seems to him to be nothing more than an imaginary friend at best and an emotional safety blanket at worst. They have good right to pray, and McKay knows this well. In fact, if the physicist could find it in him to summon any sort of faith, he knows he too would be locked in frantic prayer for Tasera and her child. This is to be the first baby to anyone's knowledge born after the arrival of the Wraith three years ago. It is a momentous occasion for the entire human race to witness what may very well be the birth of the last American and the last Earthling.

Tasera screams out again once more before going silent beyond the door. McKay's body goes rigid in a sudden, odious fear that grips and claws, digging into him. He licks his lips and wrings his hands. All eyes, his included, fall upon the door in wait for something, for anything. Agonizing seconds tick away into tortuous minutes with nothing, not a sound. Eyes dart nervously back and forth in trepidation. Then, a shrill wail pierces the silence as a baby cries painfully out and heralds its own arrival into the world.

Everyone in the corridor cheers joyously in a collected, venting uproar, a clamor of shouts and applause in intense relief, all but Rodney McKay. He holds his tongue, his ears pricked to the stained, flaking blue paint of the door before him. He has not heard Tasera yet since that last outcry, has not seen her nor the baby, has not received some sort of proof that both are healthy and well. For all McKay knows, the baby could be hideously deformed from radioactive fallout caused by the military's brash decision to attempt to fight the Wraith with nuclear weapons. He clutches his hands together in his lap so tight that the grip hurts, digging his nails into his palms to keep from roughly running his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture.

Too much time passes without anything from Tasera, Bartlett, or the few women who had volunteered to serve as her midwives and lamaze coaches, and, now, McKay's paranoia spreads through the rest of Foothold like a contagion, swelling outward from the physicist and infecting everyone around him. The applause and the shouts of mutual congratulations and praise eventually taper off to nothingness, returning the entire assembly to a tense and timid silence.When Bartlett does emerge from the room alone and quiet, his head hung low and his arms stained scarlet, they already know.

Barlett says it anyway, a broken whisper on quivering lips as he shakes his head and stares at his bloody hands with wide, hollow eyes. "I couldn't... I'm sorry...."

They do not need to hear anything more of breech births, assorted complications, or uncontrolled hemorrhaging. They all bow their heads now in sorrow and grief while the baby continues to roar in the other room. Tasera is dead and, without any wet nurse among the community or a steady supply of baby formula to nourish it, the baby will likely perish soon, too. That, in its own right, seems a grave sin when the midwives allow them in one at a time to see the tiny, scrawny and shriveled pink baby swaddled in thick, downy quilts to greet the people of Foothold who have waited so impatiently for it to arrive as well as to allow any farewells to Tasera. A girl, they note, a beautiful, and utterly fragile baby girl. No one says anything of the dismal chances for survival, even as the infant issues forth a sputtering cough.

McKay smiles wistfully at the miniature features when it is his turn to step forward, but it is a pained and tired expression as he murmurs to the child gently, "Welcome to the world." He pauses, chewing on his lower lip before adding with a solemn grimace of his features, "Sorry it has to suck so much."

xxxx

A small twitch of Sheppard's injured left leg startles him back to consciousness with a kick, pulling harshly against the handcuff about his left wrist. He holds his breath for a moment, his muscles tightening in protest against the sharp and sudden motion. Sheppard draws a controlling breath, but it comes as a dreadful hiss.

The two riders are staring at him from the other side of the basement, their gaze unsettling and piercing somehow, yet distant and emotionless. He regards the pair cautiously for a moment, even as the _skrae _keep him locked in their own sights. As Sheppard peers more closely, he spies the precious map Carter provided them with spread out across the bunk. The _skrae _give one another a quick glance before returning their attention to the map beneath them, studying carefully. Their thin, almost bony fingers skim over the weathered paper, as though memorizing each and every bit of scrawled notation from Carter and O'Neill.

It finally strikes Sheppard what is so unearthly unnerving and disarming about the two as they make miniscule gestures about the handwritten details to the map. They do not speak. Not ever. Neither has utter a single, solitary syllable during any of their encounters, as though they are mute. Even now, they seem to communicate through an entirely unspoken language of subtle mannerisms, tilts of their head and tiny twitches and hints of expression to their composed masks. A deep pit sinks in Sheppard's chest when he realizes the only other creatures he has ever seen to bear any passing resemblance these behavioral patterns are the Wraith themselves, as though these worshipers, these _skrae, _have been trained and cultivated to be an extension of that putrid excuse of a culture and society.

Sheppard adjusts his body, gingerly moving his left leg as the muscles cry out in violently before stilling himself. At his side, just within reach of his shackled hand, sits a blue enamel, steaming mug on the frame of the bunk. The colonel blinks at it, pulling himself up to peer over the edge and find a sort of yellow liquid. He breaths deeply, drawing in the absolutely tantalizing scent of chicken before taking a quick, distrusting look to the hunters. Both _skrae_ are seated within reach of their own mugs, and, even as he watches, the male sips soundlessly from a pink mug almost comically printed with "Make Love Not War" on the side in large, bubbly, and overly friendly lettering. Sheppard takes the mug carefully in his fingers and swirls it a bit before daring to venture a sip and finding it a delicious, filling broth. The colonel greedily gulps down the rest of it, burning his tongue in his haste. When finished, he sets the cup back upon the edge and tries not to think about why the _skrae _would want to keep him fed after the agonizing, tortuous hike through the mountains. The colonel is too thankful for the bit of liquid to so easily take the pathetic measure of what he hopes is kindness for granted.

The colonel settles his gaze upon the pair of hunters just in time to catch the faintest hint of a shared nod between the two. The cleanly shaven man gingerly folds the worn and annotated parchment as his consort draws the kerosene lantern near. Then, to Sheppard's great horror, the female warrior delicately lifts the soot-stained, glass hurricane for but a moment, just long enough for her companion to dip the edge of the map to the flame.

"NO!" Sheppard cries out, tugging and jerking against the solitary handcuff, no matter how it tears his raw wrist open once more and no matter how his leg suffers for the abrupt motion.

Yet it is too late. No amount of shouting or demanding stops the _skrae _as they so intently act to destroy the map. Sheppard can only watch with wide eyes as the map ignites with a chipper crackle. His heart contracts as both the hunters stare with a keen and cold gaze as orange and blue flames lick at the paper. The male sets it down upon the concrete just a fraction of a second before the map is engulfed. The hot tongues lap at Sam's map, swallowing the precious notes as the paper curls upward before relaxing once more as though letting out dying sigh. The fire quickly consumes the map and, having burnt up the kindling of the map, succumbs, leaving behind nothing more than smoldering flakes of blackened char, still glowing with pin prick orange embers at the frayed edges.

Sheppard falls back onto his bunk in defeat, wordlessly cursing this savage, untamed world and these despicable people who dare inhabit it.

xxxx

Shortly before dawn, McKay assists a few of the men in digging a narrow pit at the far end of the encampment. It is difficult labor to force the recalcitrant and frozen earth to yield to their spades, but, in time, they manage a hole long enough and wide enough to suffice. A little more than six feet long, two feet wide, and perhaps two or three feet deep, just deep enough to protect Tasera's body from even the most desperate of mountain scavenger. Sadly, this is not the first time McKay has aided in grave digging, and, even more sadly, the physicist knows this will not be the last. He forces himself to do the grizzly work, constantly reminding himself with each and every heave of his shovel that Sheppard would do the same for any of his men.

When the work is finished, McKay and Bartlett tenderly and lovingly wrap Tasera in a woolen blanket that their crumbling, rotted sense of sentiment can spare from their supplies in lieu of a pine-box coffin. McKay gently ties the fabric about Tasera's prone limbs with a light cording at her ankles and knees. He does not miss the longing way Bartlett trails a finger down the woman's lifeless, copper cheek before covering her face.

At dawn, all of Foothold draws near as they place the woman in her grave; McKay sighs with a heavy puff of steam in the pink glow. They stand in silence, without any words nor prayers. There have been too many funerals here at the outskirts of their camp, leaving nothing more to say, knowing that anything else would be nothing more than a cliched drivel that Tasera does not deserve. The people of Foothold do not even have anymore tears to shed after all these years, not even for the wonderful, sweet, and warm woman that was Tasera.

After what _feels _long enough, McKay gives a quick nod and takes up a shovel, along with Bartlett. The work in a dignified silence as the rest of Foothold disbands. Each scrap of dirt tossed over the woman seems a crime, a frightful sin, yet they manage. They cover Tasera with a stone cairn to further shield her. Reverently, Bartlett places a last rounded rock atop the pile, bearing her name in neat handwriting before shrugging and turning back to tend to the baby.

McKay pauses morosely, his gaze sweeping over the other cairns beside Tasera's. The names etched and painted upon the marker stones serve as grim accusations. They are a reminder of his failings as a leader and as a scientist, the times when there were _no _answers.

Jason. Cheryl Sandford. Heyan. Al. Shogun Mike. And, now, Tasera.

McKay shakes his head and turns back to camp.

xxxx

When Sheppard awakens in what he guesses is the morning or perhaps midday, there is a bucket at the side of his bed and a tray of food as well. A polar fleece blanket has been draped over him. The two _skrae _lie in slumber side by side on a single bunk. Todd remains shackled to the column, his head bowed in what may be sleep. The bucket Sheppard assumes is for relieving himself, after awkwardly doing so while giving near constant glances towards the hunters, he pushes it far aside.

The food is crude and coarse, with rough flavors where minute traces of seasoning have been afforded. It reminds Sheppard of something early American settlers might have carried. There is a soup or broth of what looks to be potato or perhaps squash, but it is too thinned down to really tell without tasting. Beside that rests a tiny loaf of bread and strips of a dried, smoked meat, dark red like a jerky of some kind. Sheppard doesn't even attempt to identify the meat as he chews on the tough strips, hoping its beef or venison but knowing it may very well be horse or dog.

Thankfully, there is a cup of a bitter, acidic and burnt coffee sweetened down just a bit with a touch of sugar but with no creamer or milk. Sheppard finds himself smiling ever so slightly. He prefers his coffee something close to this way. Black as night and sweet as sin is how he has always taken it. This may not be as sweet to his tastes, but it is better than nothing. The tiny comfort of home stirs a tiny hope in Sheppard that the mountain people aren't nearly as bad as they seem.

He eats, savoring every last taste after the deprivation of the ride before curling up on his palette to sleep. The food is enough to fill his stomach and restore his soul, but the gaping wound to his leg remains untreated, sapping all strength and energy from him. His body demands rest and respite with a vengeance, dragging him down like quicksand. John shivers and draws the meager blanket closer before relinquishing his body and mind to the lulling embrace of the dark and a deep sleep of the just.

Two days are spent dozing or, when the _skrae _slumber, working at the handcuff with little success. He finds they sleep lightly in shifts for the most part. Anytime the colonel moves too loudly or struggles too much, he spies the glimmer of a cracked eye staring at him. At some points, the two hunters vanish to the upstairs of the cabin. Whenever he sleeps, dirty bowls and plates vanish, and another simple, rustic meal appears by his side. The _skrae _apparently intend to keep him alive, if not entirely healthy, leaving the colonel in a state of constant tension, waiting for one of them to strike. Meanwhile, his body is failing him, slowly; tongues of fevered heat flicker and tickle through his leg, leaving him wrung out from draining chills.

Three days after their arrival, when Sheppard awakens in the morning, he knows that the Wraith is foundering as well. He cannot tell how much time has passed nor when the hunters slipped away, but they are alone now. The Wraith looks bad off, if Wraith could look truly ill or direly injured. He does not mask it well now. He hangs his head bowed, as though in penitence for whatever sin caused his untimely exile from the hives. The Wraith hasn't spoken for some time, much longer than Sheppard is accustomed. His breaths alternate between exhausted heaves and short, fluttery gasps at times. His once feral and sharply inquisitive eyes have gone dull and faded. Sheppard sits in wonder for a time, watching the Wraith for any signs of awareness.

Grudgingly, Sheppard calls to his unusual cellmate as he forces his body upright. "Todd?"

At first, the Wraith does not answer, merely curling his lip ever so slightly before asking, "What made you give me that name?"

Sheppard shrugs in earnest, despite the throbbing in his shoulders from his wrists being bound so mercilessly tight behind his back for so very long the day before. "I don't know." He picks at a bit of imaginary fluff at the end of his filthy field dressing. "It seemed to fit."

"What does the name mean?"

Sheppard again shrugs. "No clue. Sounded alright, though." He smirks despite himself and their rather unsavory predicament. "Would you rather be called Bob? Or Steve? Or maybe something really awful like Horatio?"

The Wraith does not reward his joke with any response, sitting, instead, in silence for a long moment before asking, "Why then _just _'Todd?'" He lifts his head ever so slightly, and John can see how pale and ashy white it has become in such short time. "Are your people not called by both a primary, personal name and a secondary surname decreeing lineage?"

Sheppard sighs heavily. "We gave Michael a last name."

The Wraith nods slowly, understandingly. Michael Kenmore. That is the name they gave their own bane. Granted, the rest of Pegasus have simply known the halfbreed abomination simply by the first name "Michael." Such a simple name still sends terror into even the most proud and brave of men in Pegasus. It is perhaps the only thing to strike any semblance of fear into the hearts of even the mighty creatures that are the Wraith. Nothing more needs to be said about that.

The colonel frowns in thought of the unusual candidness to the otherwise stoic Wraith and inquires, "What's wrong, Todd?"

The Wraith's eyes drift closed. "I am burning, Sheppard."

The colonel swallows and nods. He understands all too well what the creature means in the vague metaphor meant for his ears alone. Todd is starving, slowly but surely, just as much as he had been in Koyla's hold. What was it he had said? If you found yourself burning, would you settle for just one drop? Todd is dying. And, just as much, Sheppard knows he will perish, too, if he doesn't tend to his leg and mangled wrists soon.

"Yeah," the man sighs. "Me, too."

xxxx

Bartlett doesn't speak much anymore. He spends his days cloistered away with Tasera's baby, tending to it constantly. He takes his meals in the makeshift infirmary, avoiding the rest of the community. This unhealthy and alienating obsession of Bartlett's unnerves and frightens McKay to no end.

By the third day, the premature infant falls ill, its breaths ragged and stuttered. Each tiny heave of that miniature rib cage is labored and drawn out. The baby cries occasionally in complaint, but they have nothing to offer it save warm bundling, shushing lullabies, and a bit of downright ancient powdered milk watered down and gently heated by the cook stoves. They have tried to coax several of the women's recalcitrant bodies to produce something more nourishing for the baby, to no avail. McKay can tell by the shadow to Bartlett's eyes that the younger man holds no hope for the child. One of the midwives have named the precious girl Hope, which seems nothing more than a bittersweet irony granted the situation.

Rosco and Bandit, the mongrel German Sheppard mixes, pace down the length of their ropes, roving protectively about as much of the encampment as their leashes afford. When they see McKay, they lift their heads to him, issue forth a tiny yip, and trot over. McKay holds out a hand to each of them, stroking their thick pelts and feeling the damp, velveteen softness of their broad tongues. These dogs know McKay and keep otherwise silent about his presence before turning and continuing on their patrol. Something has the guard dogs rattled if they stalk so intently, perhaps the winter storm on approach.

McKay sighs heavily as he steps out into the fresh, crisply cold mountain air and towards the string of horses. He can do nothing for the baby; he cannot even find it in himself to pray after all this time, nor hold any hope for the child. He has seen far too much in his years in Pegasus and these dark days on Earth. McKay approaches the string of quietly grazing horses and, more specifically, what has almost unanimously become his horse, that ruddy brown mare, and lets the heavy western saddle slip to the ground. The physicist cannot stay here and suffer along with the child's lamentable wails.

McKay almost snorts to himself. Three years ago, the physicist's downright loathing of children was almost famed on Atlantis. He shakes his head. If only Sheppard and the others could see him now, so wistfully pining for a world in which children did not have to suffer so needlessly. It is characteristic of the different man he is now, a man which, he distantly knows, he does not recognize anymore.

He heaves the saddle onto horse's back in silence, loading the bags with the few items the people of Foothold can spare for trade, when a timid voice from behind startles him. "McKay?"

He turns sharply on his heel, wheeling around only to let out a sigh of relief. It is only Jacob, the twelve year old whelp of a boy that tends to heel closely to McKay. McKay feels the warm flush of a smile forming on his face; despite his former nature as child-hating, the physicist has formed a soft spot for Jacob after these years. He is a wiry child, but strong and sharp beyond his years, as well as a quick learner. Jacob always seems eager to entertain and amuse when possible, a small fact which constantly gives McKay hope that they may survive in this desiccated world. Yet, now, as the first downy flakes of snow fall and pepper his roughly shaven head, Jacob's eyes are wide with the worry that a child his age should never bear.

Before the people of Foothold settled in one place, they had moved in a roving caravan and stumbled across the terrified Jacob cowering in a dank culvert knee deep in raw, stinking sewage after the Wraith swept over his town. His parents vanished with a flare of white light in a culling beam before his eyes after stuffing their nine year old child into the concrete round. Jacob stayed for over two and a half days, too horrified and panicked to leave, yet safely concealed by the Wraith. When the caravan came into town to salvage what little they could, it was McKay who spotted the child tucked away there and, somehow, despite all odds, it was Rodney who managed to calm the boy and convince him to emerge from the culvert. Since then, the boy has spent every waking hour at Rodney's side when possible, even going so far as to climb into bed with McKay for comfort after nightmares of the Wraith send him crying out in the night.

"You're leaving again?" Jacob whispers fearfully.

McKay turns to the horse once more to pull the cinch tighter so he does not have to face the boy as he answers. "Yeah."

"Where?"

The physicist draws a deep breath, mulling over what he could possibly say to the child, but, fortunately, he does not have to come up with a creative lie as a second voice, a woman this time, calls, "Jacob, what are you doing out there in the cold without a jacket?!?" The woman races near with quick steps and scolds in a maternal concern, "Get inside before you catch a death of cold."

McKay waits until he hears the creak of a door behind him before giving a nod. "Thanks, Amerie. I owe you one."

A gentle hand falls upon his shoulder, turning McKay's attention to the woman. She is older than many of the other women of Foothold. Her nearly white hair is bundled up in a braid, yet a few stray, silver threads hang down about her face. Fine lines etch the sides of her eyes, and heavy, dark bags hang beneath them. Amerie had been one of Tasera's well-meaning midwives. Now, her aged, hazel eyes fix upon McKay as he self-consciously returns his focus to the horse and sliding the halter off the thick head.

"Where are you going?" she asks softly.

McKay slips the bit into the horse's teeth skillfully and buckles the bridle in place as he replies with a shrug, "Figured I'd head downhill, try and trade with the raiders."

The old woman's eyes go wide in shock. The raiders are legend in the mountains, lurking in the wide, low, temperate valleys like Lehigh. The raiders are no allies of Foothold; in fact, the raiders are no allies of anyone. They are thieves, pure and simple, bloodthirsty and greedy. They are monsters and aberrations no better than the Wraith at times. They steal and pillage at will with a callous disregard for the lives they may ruin behind them, all under an encompassing excuse of keeping the Wraith from finding any resources easily. They are unpredictable wolves of the mountains, stalking and hunting their unsuspecting pray and taking everything and anything they want from those who dare tread on their territory. The raiders hoard their treasure in hidden enclaves tucked away throughout the mountains, having adopted a "shoot first, shoot second, then shoot some more, and _maybe _ask questions later" policy when dealing with survivors. It is a desperate gamble to deal with the raiders, yet, if there is anyone to trade with, anyone that might have the sort of supplies they need to raise the premature Hope, it is the raiders.

"You can't be serious!"

"It's just some odds and ends. Thought I might be able to con them into giving us some formula or maybe bottles." McKay shakes his head. "I've got to do something, Amerie." He asserts brusquely as he takes a quick side away from the woman, pulling out from under her warm touch and snarling, "I can't just sit around and wait and pray like the rest of you."

Amerie says nothing; she knows the sad truth that, for McKay, Hope is a nothing but cruel reminder of a past he has fought very hard to forget. He has tried with no uncertain effort these last three years not to dwell upon Madison, Jeannie, and her unborn baby. It is too painful to wonder if his sister or his niece are alive. This is no world for mothers and children anymore, not since the Wraith spread like a dark, festering cancer over the land. McKay cannot hope for that, and, even if he could, he knows better. He is well aware of the odds Jeannie would have faced, the very same odds that claimed Tasera and threaten to claim Hope now. He may fancy the scientist in him as dead, yet McKay cannot help but instinctively calculate the rather miniscule chances Jeannie had granted the difficulties to her own pregnancy and the fact that young Madison would be taxing her flight as well. No. To dream of even the slightest possibility that they may be alive still now would be nothing more than an exercise in masochism, pure and simple. It is far, far easier to just not think about it, to block it from his mind.

McKay diffuses swiftly before Amerie's motherly visage, shaking his head and rubbing his temples before sighing, "Amerie, I'm sorry." He adjusts the leather ties to the saddlebags almost nervously. "I'm the answer-man. You know that." McKay ruffles his hair to knock loose some of the stray snow flakes that dust the top of his head, his words slow and grave now. "I've got to do something. Anything."

The elderly woman smiles warmly in earnest, curling her arms about him. "Just... be safe. And come home quick."

McKay gives another smile before climbing up and into saddle. He says not a thing more but waves over his shoulder at Amerie as the stocky horse walks on down the mountain slope. If he hurries and travels swiftly, he should be able to make it down to the Lowlives and back before nightfall and before the coming snow storm hammers the mountains.

Spurned by such notions, McKay keeps a steady leg on the ruddy mare beneath him and maintains a swift pace through the mountains, trotting and loping the horse where the rough, uneven terrain allows through a fine sprinkling of powdery snow. He hurries along; he needs to now. Every hour, every tiny minute the physicist can shave from his journey may mean all the difference for baby Hope. The horse does not seem to mind the rush, as much of the trail descends with a subtle incline. Even the snow cooperates with McKay's dire haste, only peppering the trail faintly instead of coming down as heavily as it has threatened.

By midday, in a watery afternoon light, McKay's radio crackles to life, and a female voice purrs over it. _"That's far enough, doctor."_

McKay flinches uncomfortably at his former title and the voice of the raider, but he holds the reins with a small squeeze and draws the horse up to a halt before responding to the hail. "Klutch."

_"Long time no see,"_ she teases with an almost sinister glee that sends shivers down Rodney's spine, a calculated reminder than the raider already has McKay in fixed in her cross hairs.

He clenches his fist but does not allow Klutch to bait him so openly. The man has dealt with Klutch many times before and long enough to know that the raider's games are all rigged in their favor and to know this particular once well. She is an expert shot, likely camped out on one of the far ridges with her sniper rifle. Klutch is renowned as an expert gunsmith and markswoman, her skill unrivaled by any on the mountains. Her greeting is an overt threat to McKay, a stern warning for him to approach only at the forfeit his own life. The raiders do not trust. McKay knows from prior experience that they watch him, even know. He can feel their eyes upon him even over the distance.

_"What brings you to my neck of the woods?" _she croons demandingly in a husky voice deliberately laden with venom that near chokes.

McKay rubs the back of his stiff neck. "I came to propose a trade."

_"What are you offering?"_

The physicist pulls one of his own precious treasures from the saddlebags and holds it over his head, a shotgun. "Works fine. We just don't have any shells for it anymore." He smirks, knowing well the tales of Klutch and her adoration of firearms. "You've got the only shell press now."

_"Oh, really now?"_ the sniper sings over the radio in a sinuous tone.

McKay does not bother with any unnecessary details. "Gap's gone." He waves the shotgun tantalizingly over his head. "You interested?"

There is a pause as Klutch considers the offer, likely studying the weapon intently through her own rifle scope, before she responds. "In exchange for....?"

"Baby formula and food. Warming blankets. Infant medicines. Anything you've got."

Klutch responds instantly and matter-of-factly, befitting the fact that she knows her entire inventory forwards and backwards. _"Sorry, but no such luck. I've got a decent enough rum though if you need to get it to sleep. Anything else you need?"_

McKay shakes his head solemnly now that, with one cutting blow, Klutch has crushed any hope he may have held out for the baby. "No. Just safe passage out of your land."

_"Will do, doctor."_ There is a momentary hitch to Klutch's transmission as the cold wind caresses McKay's cheek before she adds ominously, _"Storm's coming."_

Dejected and defeated, Rodney pulls the horse hard around and kicks it up back towards the Foothold. The trip has been nothing but a waste, but it has kept him from having to sit and watch Hope just get sicker and sicker. He sighs but turns up the long trail, knowing that Klutch will maintain her cross hairs upon him until he leaves her territory. She hates him as much, if not more, than McKay hates her. He knows all too well that the only thing that keeps the two from riding to war is the mutually beneficial tenuous spring-summer trade arrangements that Foothold and those despicable raiders share. It is a long, disheartening and silent ride up the mountain now.

He is still within the boundaries of the raiders when a nearly entirely garbled transmission comes through over the radio from Foothold; it is Bartlett, his voice thick and pained. _"McKay.... don't know.....Hope..... passed."_

McKay rides on, trying not to allow the crushing grief to take him; such dangerously clouding emotions are ill-afforded in the wilds. He is not even to the edge of the raiders' territory when a deafening boom rocks the mountains, vibrating against the stone. The horse whinnies and jumps to the side in fright, jerking it's head up in a frantic bob. The mare hollows out her neck and throws her head so far back that McKay can see the whites of her wild eyes as her muscles gather to bolt. In another lifetime, McKay would have likely panicked along with his steed, but this McKay merely holds to the reins and wheels the horse about, expecting a rear attack from those lying, traitorous raider scum. His eyes dart about in the snowy, gray haze for the source of the sound, spying the thick, rolling black clouds rising above him in the mountains.

McKay swears; there is no way the churning, boiling curls of heavy, black smoke will go unnoticed in this barren, dead range for long.

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Note : **ZOMG! Thanksies for the great reviews!

Oh, yes, **Aurembiaix**, I enjoy using the present tense with this story because it furthers the desolation and dreariness to America (*or what's left of it!), as well as, hopefully a sense of tension and desperation both slowly rising together. I hope you continue to enjoy it.

XD

By the by, bonus points for everyone who realized that the chapter title is a subtle nod to _The Walking Dead : This Sorrowful Life_. Kirkman's work has been a wonderful inspiration. If you're a comic fan and haven't read any of _The Walking Dead_, you should probably head on over to your local Barnes & Noble or comic shop and camp out with the trades. A seriously excellent comic.

Next chappie : reunions!


	6. Come Courtly Callers

**CALIBER - Come Courtly Callers**

The thunderous explosion that jars both Sheppard and the Wraith is so intense, so loud, that the lodge about them rattles and hums for the briefest of instances, bracing against the wake. The colonel freezes instantly, his entire body going rigid and stiff. His muscles pull tight as a tautly strung bow, ready to spring futilely once more against the cuff that binds his wrist, but the second explosion that the colonel so readily expects never comes.

Sheppard blinks owlishly, clearing his vision and adjusting to the all encompassing and embracing dark that he has grown so used to over these days. The lantern has almost burnt out, leaving but the meekest of flames flickering and sputtering upon the wick, greedily sucking up the last bit of fuel. It casts a faint, dying glow somewhere between orange and blue, but the scant light suffices enough for Sheppard to survey the room. The _skrae _have not returned, but the Wraith remains, cocking his head to the side and listening, keenly training on some sound only he can hear.

The door at the top of the steps creaks open, and the two _skrae _silently slither down the stairs. Sheppard eases back, deeper onto his bunk until his spine presses into the chilled, cement wall behind him, but the two riders largely ignore him. They have already armed themselves to the teeth, their many blades secured and at the ready. Both reach for their ghillie suits, but, as the female's hand just graces the fabric to pull it from the hook, the male grabs it. She inclines her head to the side but maintains an even composure, expressing not a thing. She holds her companion in her feral, green gaze, but he merely tips his own head back. The moment is small and fleeting, but the mannerisms remain sickeningly and perversely familiar to Sheppard as gestures belonging to the Wraith alone, social graces no human should ever bear.

Sheppard glances to Todd. The Wraith keeps his head angled, still studious of the sounds about them, the faintest traces of life that only a real predator could ever know. However, by the subtle shift to the Wraith's honey colored eyes, Todd has not missed the subtle exchange either. The Wraith stills his breaths and his motions, maintaining an air of quiet vigilance about the _skrae_. He studies them, even now, devouring every miniscule detail of them with the fine instincts of a wolf on the hunt.

She acquiesces with a minute dip of her head, and the other hunter releases his hold of her. The male pulls his ghillie on and secures it about him before bounding up the steps without a single sound, leaving the female behind. Sheppard says nothing and forces his expression to vacant in betrayal of the curiosity surging through him. The female's gaze sweeps up with her fellow hunter as he takes the steps unearthly silently. As the door creaks shut, the _skrae _hunkers down low on her haunches, drawing her finely honed kukri.

A single horse draws near to the cabin, moving swiftly, judging by the hammer of well shod hooves on the cold, hard packed ground above them. Both the Wraith and Sheppard turn their heads to follow the sounds of hoofbeats pounding at the ground before giving way to the almost ghastly silence of the mountains once more. The male rides off, to face whatever the explosion heralds, leaving the female to protect their prizes.

Sheppard shifts his weight, flinching as his leg comes into contact with something and drawing a hissed, controlled breath through his teeth. He lies back into the thin palette that reeks of his own, unwashed scent, closing his eye and gritting his teeth to ride out the pain. When the sparks no longer dance across his vision and the agony subsides to a dull ache once more, Sheppard cracks his eyes opens and blinks in slowly dawning surprise. In all of his many struggles and attempts to break free, he has never just looked up, for however silly that may have sound. In truth, now that he sees it, Sheppard would kick himself, providing he could. A tiny bit of thin wire protrudes in a haphazard barb from the joint above his head, so small that it may have been a wood staple tacking up decorations at once point.

He does not move, not at first, cautiously glancing to both the Wraith and the _skrae _at the base of the steps, before reaching up to work at the metal. The colonel licks his lips, prying at the wire to rip it free, but careful not to lose it amid the bedding. The edge scrapes at his fingertips harshly, but Sheppard persists stubbornly. In minutes, he frees the metal and finds it is indeed an ancient seeming wood staple. It is little wonder Sheppard never noticed it before, as the scrap is rusted and brown, but it might do if he could find a second piece. One to manipulate the tumblers and another to actually turn the lock.

The Wraith's head tilts slightly, indicated only by the slick, moving glimmer across his silver locks. The colonel spies a hint of attentive study to the Wraith's eyes, but Todd does not dare move a muscle. Instead, the Wraith's lips thin to a minute smirk. The predator lowers his chin in a faint degree of acknowledgment, conveying to Sheppard an awareness of his actions while maintaining focus on the _skrae_. There is a brief pause before the Wraith allows a deep, steadying sigh and shift of his weight with a rattle of his fetters. The colonel furrows his brow, but, to his great surprise, something metallic skitters across the floor and slides to a halt at his feet. Sheppard cautiously leans out and delicately plucks the object from the ground, finding to be a second, rusted wood staple. The Wraith has been plotting the same means of escape.

Sheppard glances to the _skrae_ and her deadly, black blade; she will be the decisive challenge to this. The colonel feels the faintest hint of a grin form on his own face, filling his cheeks with a delicious, mischievous flush. He _likes _challenges.

xxxx

Ronon creeps beneath and through the thicker clumps of powdered underbrush, careful to conceal his tracks and to avoid the open. He has been exceedingly cautious to avoid detection, lingering in the woods and slowly allowing the baser, animal instincts to take him once more, the same instincts that kept him safe all those years on the run from the Wraith. The woods protect and shelter him, embracing Ronon as kindred, welcoming him despite the fact that the Satedan has never ventured into Pennsylvania - as Sheppard called this territory - before now. The forests provide Ronon with everything he needs.

The air stings at his eyes acridly as choking plumes of black smoke drift through the woods about him. He has already wrapped his face with a strip of fabric cut from his own clothes and wetted in the stream to filter his breaths, but that does nothing to dampen the scent of fire that soaks into everything about him. A heavy cloud of smoke hangs in the sky overheard as snowflakes drift on an arctic wind with flakes of ash.

Ronon regrets the explosion. The sound, the smoke, and the fires that crackle about him will draw attention directly to him. He knows it was a necessary evil. Ronon has spent days moving about the mountainside, as loud as possible, imploring through his all too obvious trail for the hunters to make their move. He has left impossibly blatant trails and signs of life, going so far as to leave a piss mark whenever he must stop to relieve himself should they come after him with dogs. However, no matter how obvious his trail, no matter how it begs to be followed or mocks those who do not, the hunters refuse to be baited. In fact, Ronon has not seen the hunters nor any trace of them since Sheppard and the Wraith vanished. The Satedan had lobbed a fist sized rock amid the tripwires and set off the incendiaries purely to force the hunters into action.

The snow falls heavily now about him, swirling about the thick smoke and bits of black ash in slow, languid curls upon the breeze, but Ronon regards the steadily increasing snowfall with a calculated dispassion. The forests draw silent about him, unnaturally and eerily so. Even the trees cease in their near endless creaks and groans under the winter winds. An almost supernatural charge fills the air, singing down the runner's muscles with every low, filling breath he draws. Chunky but lacy flakes drift down to settle upon Ronon's dreaded hair, but he does not move to shake them loose. Instead, the Satedan stills to a deathly silence, knowing this is nothing more than the protean quiet that precedes a predator on the move. His heartbeats slow to a steady, even pace, with drawn out pauses between the beats in a cold calm that seven years running from and hunting the Wraith have taught him well.

Ronon narrows his eyes to study the woods spread before him. He has chosen this spot for a reason, not far from where he originally located the explosives. The trail here narrows to a pinched spot between the thick, dense and concealing grove of underbrush that Ronon now occupies and a massive, sheer boulder perhaps five meters tall. The miniscule clearing spans no wider than ten feet before him for the length of the rock facing before yawning wide once more.

Something disturbs the lonely mountains, just beyond this modest choke point, a scuff of sorts. Ronon inhales deeply and holds his breath, receding back into the thick of the brush before freezing in place, an asp coiled and ready to strike. Something plods heavily towards him, accentuated by a crunching noise. Ronon studies the pattern of motion in the series of thumps upon the ground, noting the even four-beat nature to it. A horse approaches, and a rather large one at that, judging by the sound of it. Ronon's lips curl in intense, singing satisfaction; the hunters have taken his exceedingly irresistible bait.

His muscles tense in wait as a singular horse strides into view. It is a tall, massive horse, much like Ronon has expected this entire time, like a drafter of some form. It is a dark, muddy brown color along a shaggy, lackluster winter coat. The horse tramps along the trail, quietly meandering on a loose rein and puffing out with steaming, heavy exhalations as its rider quietly threads into the choke point with a light and easy touch on the bit. The hunter's face is swaddled and concealed behind a thick, wooly scarf, and he is clad in snug, insulating clothes that do elicit a tiny quiver of jealousy from the mildly shivering Satedan. Blue eyes peering through the winter wear seem to sweep over the flames studiously, squinting against the harshly stinging smoke.

The runner waits for the horse to step directly in front of him before making his move. Ronon squeezes his fist tightly and leaps from the brush. He moves swiftly and purposefully, covering the tiny space before the rider can even register the motion. As Ronon is within range, however, the rider jerks hard upon the bit, hauling the balking mount in a hasty sidestep away from Ronon. The Satedan expects this. He has chosen this exact point carefully based off of the scant information gleaned from the tracks. The massive horse cannot swiftly nor easily corner about its haunches in the narrow space, spooking it slightly and sending it fighting the bit. Ronon uses this to his advantage and snatches at a side of the wide, d-ring of the snaffle, dragging the horse down to the ground.

It bears a small reminder that Ronon Dex, Satedan runner, is not superhuman in any way, shape, or form, including physical strength, nor has he ever been save for perhaps the glancing, eternally shameful moments in his life under the influence of the Wraith enzyme. He is, however, an extremely skilled and exceptionally well-trained soldier with a wide array of additional talents at his disposal and the keen instincts of a born hunter. He has faced larger and fiercer animals in his time on the run; this most docile of mounts is no threat or worry to the Satedan. The man has the horse startled and off-balanced from the very start, having anticipated this in advance. By catching the steed so and by the bit, the Ronon has little trouble wrenching back on the horse's mouth and throwing it down. The stocky mount lands with an earth-shaking thud that even Ronon feels quiver through the muscles of his legs.

The rider is thrown from its steed and scrambles back as the horse rolls and thrashes upon the ground to right itself. Ronon, however, heaves his entire weight over the horse's back in one catlike motion before it can surge up to its feet, pouncing on the rider. The thin blanket of downy snow does nothing to absorb anything save the very brunt of the lander, stealing a stifled grunt from the stranger beneath him that Ronon largely ignores. His hands move of their own accord, grabbing at the soiled, heavily padded jacket, hefting the stranger onto his back. Ronon balls fistfuls of the coat collar in his hands, lifting the rider up to meet his stoney, accusing gaze. The clearly startled rider flails out wildly with his arms and legs, but the burly man holds tight and towers over the stranger, looming darkly above his catch.

The animalistic voice that rumbles in his throat is almost unrecognizably dark and roughly threatening as Ronon demands, "WHERE'S SHEPPARD?!?

The figure beneath him trembles.

"WHERE IS SHEPPARD?" Ronon demands once more with when the startled stranger beneath him fails to respond swiftly enough for the Satedan's taste.

The thick, woolen scarf muffles any answer the stranger blurts out. Ronon leans closer, desperate to hear and better understand the hunter. A gloved hand reaches up and paws at the wrappings wildly, as stifled rants continue to spill from the concealed mouth. Before the hand can tear away at scarf, something stirs in the brush behind them with a barely noticeable flit of color out of the corner of the big man's eyes, jerking Ronon's attention and pricking his ears to it. He presses a thick finger against where his prize's mouth is beneath the warm covering in a stern warning, silencing the stranger instantly.

The second hunter prowls closely now.

A dark, hulking form bursts from the underbrush that Ronon had skulked in just moments before, shaggy and beast-like somehow. It is a man of some form, part animal and part human beneath a quivering mass of intricately woven and layered dried leaves, tattered fabric scraps, jagged twigs, and rustling grassy bits. This second hunter drops low as it moves, slamming into the Satedan with what feels like a shoulder, driving into the runner.

Despite all of the unusual trappings, it is not the hunter who makes a sound as it drives full tilt into Ronon and sends the two of them rolling to the ground. No, for even as Ronon throws the first punch with a solid, connecting blow to what may be a cheek or nose beneath all the camouflage, the hunters utters not a single syllable. When the stranger whips about with its own, returning blow, catching Ronon in his lower neck and knocking the wind right out of him, even the runner holds his tongue in an impressive display of self control. Even as they grapple once more, throwing each other off balance and wrestling to the ground in a tangled fray, neither says a thing.

No, it is only when this interloping hunter draws an enticing, curved, black blade that any of these three travelers says a thing.

"WILLEM, STOP!"

The hunter freezes, blade still held at the ready for a killing strike, perhaps a dashing slice through the Satedan's stomach in hopes of eviscerating him with a steaming splash of blood and viscera on the otherwise white and innocent snow thickening at their feet. The runner, however, is not bound by the wrenched shriek of the forgotten stranger he had yanked so viscously from the horse. He continues to move, sweeping forward and drawing from one of his own collection of blades and knives, his fingertips finding and selecting a personal favorite hunting knife with a serrated back edge intended for gutting. Ronon steps without hesitation, without remorse, closing the space between them with the clear intent of employing those jagged teeth upon the back of his knife.

The runner only falters when the voice cries out, "RONON, NO!"

xxxx

When Sheppard's grip slips on the tiny wood staples, the metal rasps against the cuff, sending him flinching. He has worked in silence now for sometime, gingerly bending and testing the wood staples as much as possible to manipulate the tumblers, occasionally darting wary glances to the _skrae_'s turned back. The short bits are difficult to work with at best and nearly impossible to draw any finesse from; they cut at his fingertips and constantly slip in his sweat-slicked grasp. The colonel holds his breath at this, the first audible evidence of his current escape attempt, worried that she may have heard the sound even from where she crouches at the base of the steps in ever deepening shadows at the lantern light starves for fuel and dims.

Suddenly and quite fortunately, the Wraith comes to Sheppard's rescue, speaking in a low, gravely tone as he asks, "Tell me of your Queen."

The colonel blinks in shock and confusion. It takes a moment for Sheppard to reallize the Wraith has not addressed him but has instead craned his angularly sculpted head in the direction of the female. It is a question for the _skrae_, meant to needle and pressure. The Wraith are masters of social manipulation, and Todd is perhaps one of the most skilled of his kind in these sorts of sadistic mental games. It works without fail. He notes her bristle at the sound, the muscles of her neck stiffening and tensing slightly, betraying the icy facade both of the _skrae_ has so impressively and perfectly fabricated.

No, it is more than mere verbal posturing Sheppard concludes when the Wraith's bound, pale hand gives a jerking, insisting wave and speaks further, "Very few Queens still entertain such archaic fancies as maintaining of any number of _skrae_. She must be a most unique creature, indeed."

Sheppard swallows and bows his head encouragingly at the Wraith, well aware that those honey sharp gaze can catch the subtle motion out of the corner of his eyes. The Wraith talks now against the relatively taciturn nature of his species purely to distract and bother the huntress, as well as to mask the sounds of Sheppard's lock picking. The colonel waits now, patiently for the Wraith to bait the _skrae _once more before working the wood staples again.

Todd does not disappoint. "It is either your Queen who is the unique specimen, or you."

Sheppard quickly pokes prods at the tumblers during that one statement but freezes when the hunter stands tall and rigidly. Her head hangs on a predatory tilt, while her hands grip down tightly upon the hilts of her blades. The Wraith has touched a nerve, a serious one if the reaction of the _skrae _is any indication.

"Were you aware, John Sheppard, that facial markings can be indicative of trade, rank, and the favor of a Queen depending upon the particular pattern and coloring? It is not unlike the military ornamentation I have studied of your people." The Wraith presses on with an uncanny thematic precision, venturing further upon the subject now that he has elicited such a dramatic reaction from the otherwise dour female and cutting right to the quick. "Your Queen's chosen tattoos decree an entertainer of marked skill, little _skrae_."

Sheppard licks his dry, chapped lips in alarm. He has been trying quite intently to ignore the mocking banter and pointed verbal blows of the Wraith, yet that is one comment that the colonel cannot allow to slip by without notice. An entertainer? The colonel has never felt any great inspiration to learn anything about the Wraith save the best means of dispatch. If anything, Sheppard has strived _not _to know much of the Wraith if possible. Yet these last few days couple with quiet admissions of Todd have offered a startling new perspective of the Wraith and their twisted culture, one which serves only to turn Sheppard's stomach again and again.

_"Dinner and a show?" _the man ponders sarcastically.

Todd's pale lips twist into a devilish sneer even as the metal hits homes in the lock, driven by Sheppard's more than capable hands. "Perhaps you could indulge your captiveaudience with a demonstration of your talents."

The _skrae _moves swiftly, spinning on a dime in a blur almost as fast as the Wraith themselves. Her blade shoots out and skims just past Todd's pointed cheek bone. Sheppard blinks, thinking she may have slashed the Wraith's face right open with that razor honed kukri of hers. Yet, when the _skrae _stops, the Wraith merely chuckles, low and deeply, a thundering bass that nearly vibrates. A few pale, moon white strands drift to the ground in a delicately looping curl, lopped clean from Todd's head by the blade.

Sheppard turns the wood staples with a deft twirl of his fingertips, and the cuff lock gives with a click under his ministrations.

The Wraith leans his head back, his eyes sparkling wildly and defiantly at the _skrae _before him, still bearing her kukri as he chortles, "Impressive, indeed. You do your Queen justice."

Sheppard hesitates to free himself fully. The _skrae _is well armed, on guard, and quite obviously an excellent warrior by her minute display of skill for the Wraith's benefit. Inn addition to that, she moves more agilely and swiftly now that Sheppard's leg is so stiff and cumbersome from the wound through his calf. The handcuffs will surely give some sort of noise when the colonel opens it at last. When the man moves, it must be without hesitation. He must subdue the female _skrae _before the male returns.

Footsteps tromp overhead with creaking groans in the wood beams. Sheppard tenses, noting how the _skrae _sinks down once more. All ears train to the motions overhead, subconsciously tracking the sounds suspiciously,_ skrae _included, albeit with only the slightest of inclines to her pale and almost feline face. Three sets of distinctive footsteps tread upon the wooden floor above them. One of the shuffling gaits Sheppard recognizes as belonging to the man who lived above, who had taken the _skraes_' weapons and housed them. The other two are unfamiliar. Someone new has come.

Sheppard's muscles clench together, coiling tight as a spring as the footsteps drawn near to the stairs with long creaks and pops of the wood above. He holds tight to the metal staples lodged in the lock to keep it open but shrinks back onto the bunk, preparing himself. He has no choice now; he must act.

When the door groans open, the colonel leaps, despite the searing agony of his leg protesting rather vehemently against the abrupt motion. Sheppard bites that back, hurling himself to the _skrae_ with her back turned to him and throwing his arms about her. The female feels so tiny, so delicate, and so utterly fragile beneath him, but it is merely an illusion almost as skillfully crafted as the ghillie suits. She is stronger than she looks, far stronger, indeed. The _skrae _twists underneath him with a bucking kick, springing back on powerful and muscle knotted legs. They are not thrown back as she has no obviously intended, but it does garner her a great bit of leeway as Sheppard's leg screams from the sudden downward force braced upon it, sending lighting pain racing through his nerves with a white-hot flare. She writhes in his grip, sliding away when his leg cannot take the pressure and crumples beneath him. John growls almost as viciously as the Wraith as his leg folds and as he crashes to his knees.

The _skrae _recoils for only a heartbeat, regrouping and gathering for a powerful, driving blow. Sheppard winces inwardly but maintains an outward composure and aggression, tapping into a wilder and ultimately animalistic instinct. His eyes scour the _skrae_, pouring a pure and scalding rage out, written in every feature of his body. Those crisply emerald eyes stare back with the same violent intensity, even if her marble white face barely registers even the merest of twitch. She slinks low on her haunches as a wolf on the hunt, stalking him now with her kukri drawn. Sheppard does not close his eyes when the female does finally spring on the balls of her feet, sweeping towards him so fast that he can almost feel her wind.

"KYLIE!" A sharp and familiar voice cracks like a whip down the steps. "KYLIE, STOP IT!"

The _skrae _jerks back with a start. Sheppard blinks in shock and a deep surprise that he has not been expediently dispatched by the _skrae_. His eyes struggle for a moment to adjust to a fresh bath of bright light from the steps, pouring down and into the basement keep with the unusual assortment of players. A pair of silhouettes stride down the stairs together in a stern silence, their heavy footsteps as death knolls on the old steps.

Sheppard gives another blink when his eyes finally do adjust. it is too strange, too eerie, and too earth shattering to be believed. The figure leading the way is familiar yet changed. There are hard muscles were there had been pallid flesh before. Where they had been rounded features, there now resides a solemnly gaunt and worn appearance, replete with fine lines that Sheppard could never recall having existed before. The eyes even hold a distinctive sorrow that had never been there before. A series of horrid seeming scars mar a cheek that had once been smooth and soft. This is a person who has seen a hard few years in this time of the Wraith, and, yet, for all the outward changes, it is a person Sheppard would recognize anywhere, followed by a rather wary looking Ronon.

His throat almost closes, strangling the name that spills forth from his lips. "Rodney?"

The physicist kneels beside his fallen friend. "Yeah."

The colonel frowns for a moment before allowing a strained chuckle. "Where in the _hell _have you been?"

A dark look flashes through Rodney's features for but a second before he gives a lopsided and tired smirk. "Been busy."

"Well," Sheppard swallows his pain and surprise. "It's about damn time."

There is a quiet to Rodney that had not been there before. Before, on Atlantis, Rodney had been a man of constant action, fidgeting and twitching even with his hands and anything loose within his reach, or suddenly bobbing up and rushing off to the labs to test a new theory. This Rodney is still and contemplative, almost wary in a way that seems entirely contradictory to Sheppard's memories.

McKay's eyes flit to the bandage about Sheppard's leg as fresh scarlet wells beneath the wraps before pulling one of the colonel's arms over his shoulders to bear much of John's weight. "Come on, lets move out. Get Bartlett to take a look at that leg."

As Rodney gathers up Sheppard and lifts him easily from the bed, shouldering his weight, the colonel feels the skeleton and musculature shrouded beneath the bulky, winter clothes. Joints that should have been well padded and fatty jutted out and prodded John despite ample layering of warm attire. The physicist is skinnier than before, much thinner, in fact. Yet there lies a hardened strength to Rodney in what feels like newly acquired sinews. The fact that McKay can hoist Sheppard so easily and without argument is a bitter testament to the changes in the once weak and whining scientist.

Sheppard wants to ask so much. A hundred questions flitter across his awareness. Where has McKay been all this time? How has he survived? Why does he hold sway over the _skrae _who now lurks back and away from this awkward reunion? There is so much he wants to know, needs to know, but when Sheppard's mouth flaps open dumbly to field any of the many queries, his questioning look is met only by a terse shake of Rodney's head.

_Not now._

"It's late. We've got to get to up top before they lock up for the night."

Sheppard nods and limps beside Rodney, pausing at the Wraith. Todd stares up at the humans, the Lanteans, but there is not an ounce of anger, nor rage, and none of the burning hunger the colonel thought would be there, especially directed to the female lurking at their heels and keeping a keen distance from Ronon. Instead, those honey eyes just stare with measured press, the features of the beast drawn and solemn. There lies an intense and bone-weary exhaustion in the Wraith, a strange quality the colonel has never seen in any of Todd's kind save him in Koyla's clutches. Sheppard grimaces inwardly as his brain turns over the starvation the alien predator must feel in an odd sympathy that is rational so desperately yearns to just push aside and ignore. The Wraith are a sick, sadistic, predatory cancer of a people, deserving of none of what might be slight regret or fragile worry nigging at the back of Sheppard's mind.

"Wait." Rodney pauses in indulgence of the whim but says nothing; Sheppard swallows and inquires in a hushed whisper, "What about Todd?"

McKay sniffs, almost indignantly, before catching the quick, sharp glare of Ronon's and stating quite flatly. "He can't come with us."

"But..."

Before any argument -flimsy and poorly constructed or otherwise - can leave Sheppard's lips, the Wraith mercifully intercedes for him in a slow and almost painful drawl. "Go, John Sheppard. I shall.... endure." There is an odd note to the word, a stress that perhaps rather pointedly belongs. "My presence now will only be an unwelcome and hindering element."

Sheppard gives an understanding nod. It is the truth, afterall. The Wraith have culled this world, bled it dry of everything save a few persistent pockets of what passes for humanity. These people, Rodney included, aren't highly likely to welcome the presence of a Wraith with open arms, even one so unusual or weakened by starvation and injury as Todd. The trust of these people is a delicate thing, exceedingly difficult to earn, beauty to have and hold, but amazingly easy to shatter and break. Even McKay's gaze betrays the friendship he seems to be forcing to the forefront of his expression, roaming over Ronon, Sheppard, and the Wraith in turn with the studious worry of a prey animal. They have no other choice but to leave the Wraith behind and hope for the best for Todd.

Sheppard spares one last look of commiseration before allowing McKay to help him up the steps. Todd follows their movements with his pain clouded eyes, sweeping up the steps as they leave him, the cold acceptance written in his every feature as he dips his head to Sheppard. The female _skrae _spares a last glance to Todd as well before falling into step with the unusual procession upstairs and out into the chilly afternoon air peppered by the falling snow. There, stood the male _skrae_, holding the reins to the three monstrous, brown horses that seemed more appropriate mounts for Vikings than the weary travelers. McKay helps Sheppard into the saddle of one of the horses, hefting him up and grunting from the effort but never complaining, gesturing for Ronon to double up with the colonel.

Sheppard winces when the Satedan shifts his injured left leg in mounting the massive steed before covering it with a pathetic attempt at a joke and quirky smirk as the runner's warmth presses against him from behind. "This _never _happened."

Ronon's hands snake about him to take up the reins. "Never."

Movement to their side draws both the colonel's and the Satedan's attention. Rodney swings up into the saddle of a darker horse, a stocky, liver bay. It appears a practiced and easy motion for the man who once seemed ill-suited to even basic hiking. The unsettling effect is only heightened when the physicist reaches down and offers a hand to the female _skrae _- Kyle, John corrects himself - to help her up as well. Her hands slip to his side before resting lightly upon his hips as Rodney gathers his reins up. The male _skrae _- Willem, Ronon informs him in a tiny, passing whisper - guides his own mount to the side of McKay's mount. They are ready to leave now. Rodney gives a small nod and turns his mount up the trail, taking point as the male _skrae _waits for Ronon to proceed before him.

Up the mountain they go in a steadily increasing snowfall. Chunky flakes stick to Sheppard's lashes as they ride further from the cabin until it vanishes into the white. Sheppard shudders to think of what might happen to Todd now, but there is nothing he can do; Rodney has been quite clear that the Wraith cannot come. Ronon must think this to be a shiver of chill, leaning closer to Sheppard to impart more body heat as they ride.

No one dares say a thing, which is unsettling considering Meredith Rodney McKay's infamy as perhaps one of the loudest members of the Atlantis expedition. The pair of Lanteans occasionally give cautious looks over their shoulders to spy Willem still trailing behind them, his own gaze narrowed in study and threat. It makes ride feel all too much longer and awkward.

Suddenly, Kylie stiffens visibly, her body going rigid, and the physicist draws up his horse to a stop. The mountains stand silent about them and still aside from the falling snow and the crunch of the powder beneath them as the horses shift their weight uneasily. The horse beneath Ronon and Sheppard stamps hard. Rodney's mount chews on the bit, jingling the snaffle. Sheppard turns slightly in the saddle to spy Willem drawing his kukri down and to the side, holding it at the ready. Something has them on edge.

Ronon cocks his head to the side and strains. He has learned through his years on the run to trust the animals about him for subtle clues and signs of things to come. Nothing about the actions of the _skrae _nor the horses bodes well. His hand gives a minute twitch at his side, hovering over his stunner.

A high pitched whine echoes in the distance, the familiar sound of dart echoing in the mountains.

Rodney swears and slips off the horse, allowing his companion to take the reins from him. "Kylie, Willem, you're on."

The two _skrae _say not a word but give near imperceptible nods of their heads and wheel their horses about. The give small kicks at their mounts rounded flanks, spurring them into a lurching canter. Sheppard watches in curiosity as the pair rides off in a hurry, racing off into the woods and splitting away from one another, flying _towards _the sound of the dart. Sheppard and Ronon watch in surprise as the dart skims through the snow heavy clouds and ducks towards the woods, sweeping close to the tree line and veering off course oddly before disappearing entirely from sight. The whine, however, persists and shifts strangely as the dart continues to swoop and dive after the riders plunging down the mountain now. Eventually the mountains swallow that sound, and stillness prevails once more.

McKay looks to his companions with a nonchalant shrug and explains simply, "They'll throw the Wraith off track and double back later." Sheppard frowns at the thought of human bait as young as those two while Ronon tightens his hold on the reins, but Rodney just shakes his head. "They'll be fine." He turns his attention to the mountain trail looming ahead with a distant look indicating that the subject be dropped. "I'll walk."

The colonel and the Satedan exchange a curious look but neither says a thing. Rodney's tension sends shivers down both their spines even as he turns and strides up the mountain. The old McKay would have complained and whined until either of the other two men gave up his spot on the horse. This McKay just walks on without a word, leading the way.

However, Sheppard is too tired to care, exhausted from the long ride and the aching wound in his leg, finding himself lulling in the saddle once more. There is something surprisingly draining about the journey now, as well as something utterly intoxicating about the warmth behind him. The gentle sway of the rounded shoulders of the horse rocks him until his eyelids feel leaden.

Sleep takes him long before darkness settles over the mountain range.

xxxx

After some time into the ride, Sheppard slumps in the saddle and eases against Ronon limply, his head hanging and his chin touched to his chest. At first, it startles the runner, to the point where he feels the horse's mouth with the reins and stops it. The runner takes a moment to survey the bandages about Sheppard's leg, noting that the bleeding his prior skirmish with the girl has long since staunched. McKay pauses ahead of them, turning with an uncertain look upon his face that bordered concern as Ronon leans forward. Sheppard breaths are low, long and even. His features are peaceful and relaxed.

Ronon smiles slightly and presses a finger to his lips. "Sleeping."

McKay gives a nod and looks up the trail as snow continues to sprinkling over the range. "Not much farther."

Ronon says nothing in response, the old habits of his years on the run having kicked in. He merely squeezes his legs about the horse when McKay continues on. The walk in silence for what feels like hours before the trail begins to widen and show the faint signs of wear. Even through the fine powder of snow, Ronon spies the rounded and worn hoof prints leading both in their direction and away. They move now along a trail perhaps six to ten feet wide to where it levels off and becomes the remnants of a road. Where the snow is thin, the horse's shoes scrape and rasp against asphalt.

It reminds Ronon so much of the years he spent on the run from the Wraith, and why should it not? This place that he recalled teeming with life from his brief visits is nothing but a Wraith-culled world. Quiet. Dead. Still. A tomb floating through this galaxy no different than his own, once brilliant and shining Sateda. He watches McKay ambling through the snow ahead of them with a studious and knowing gaze, entirely aware in a way that few people can be of the many horrors the physicist must have endured these years.

Suddenly, a voice cries out ahead of them. "McKay!"

Sheppard jerks awake from the noise, and Ronon tenses instinctively but releases instantly. The voice belongs to a dark skinned child, a scrawny twig of a thing, bolting through the snow. The boy throws his arms about McKay in an almost protective and possessive way.

"Jacob," Ronon hears McKay gently greet before the physicist ruffles the child's hair.

The boy steps back from McKay, having noticed the two riders behind the physicist. His eyes go wide with worry, but McKay just smiles gently at the child and squeezes his shoulder. Sheppard frowns. A Rodney McKay that is good with children is an utter contradiction to everything that is the memory of his friend. He even recalls how sadistically gleefully the physicist had seemed after shipping Radek off to that world populated only by children, as though relishing how horrid the children would treat the Czech. The McKay that both John and Ronon recalls lacks the soothing, paternal skills that this incarnation appears to have acquired somewhere.

"Friends of mine," he explains simply to the boy before throwing his arm about Jacob's thin frame and waving Ronon on. "We're close."

Ronon nods.

The unusual companions walk on through the snow to a wide and open clearing cut along the side of the mountain face. An impossibly steep, gray rock face rises before them in defiance of gravity and the weathering winds. To the left are long rows of dead, dried and brown stalks of what appears to have been crops of some form dusted by the snow. To the far right, a long rope spans the clearing. Several horses mingle at the hitching spots where their dirty halters are secured. One nickers in greeting of the returning mount, who returns with a throaty call that rumbles through its chest and sends its shoulders almost jiggling in a way. Two hulking dogs bark loudly from across the way where they run and jump at the end of long, jingling chains. It is an encampment, and both the Lanteans know immediately that it is Foothold.

On the far side of the space sits a tin plated building with rusted metal walls, butted up against the rocky face. The metal looks worn and faded from some sort of blue color it may have once been to a sickly grey. Something about the simple, two story structure harkens back to the distant memories of sepia stained photographs of old mines. Sure enough, over double steel doors hangs an ancient seeming sign proclaiming in block lettering "Chatham Mining Co."

McKay stops dead at the mouth of the field that Sheppard now recognizes as a mining pit and turns his head to the side. A small row of rock cairns lines the edge of the woods, nestled beside a grove of aspens still bearing a scant dressing of golden leaves that quiver in the snowy wind. Each is marked by a single stone atop it bearing a name. It takes no small measure of genius to understand that these are graves. All three of the weary travelers flinch to spy a cairn that is much tinier than the others, a child's grave bearing the name "Hope" atop it. Seven piles of rock mounds line the trees, including the child's.

McKay nudges the boy gently by his shoulder. "Jacob, do me a favor and take care of the horse."

"No prob."

Sheppard winces as McKay and Ronon both help him slide from the saddle to the cold, hard and unyielding ground. The Satedan easily swings off the horse's back and hands the reins to the boy, Jacob. The child leads the horse away as McKay helps Sheppard limp to the small building, each step an exquisite agony. He pauses only before the snapping guard dogs, allowing them each in turn to take in their scents before continuing on. Ronon follows uneasily, glancing to the woods, ever mindful of the hunters and guards that had set themselves so intently upon the Lanteans, before slipping through the metal doors and into a startling warmth.

"Welcome to Foothold," Rodney announces with an oddly nostalgic ring to his words before sighing in Sheppard's direction. "C'mon, let's get you to Bartlett so he can patch you up." McKay allows a small grunt of effort as he shuts the door behind him before continuing down a narrow, dirt lined hall and past rows of abandoned lockers. "He's no Carson or Keller, but beggars can't be choosers."

The locker room gives way quickly to an equipping area where a wide array of mining tools lie in scattered disuse before the hall opens wider to a tunnel burrowing deep into the rock of the mountain. McKay gestures with a nod of his head to Ronon to a cabinet off to the side filled with an assorted collection of flashlights ranging from waterproof camping lanterns to dayglow children's flashlights plastered with cartoon characters. The Satedan selects the nearest camping lantern and tucks it into a pocket. There seems no need for it, as bare, incandescent bulbs hang along one of the dirt walls of the tunnel at even intervals, still burning brightly and illuminating the tunnel perfectly. A set of tracks sunken into the hard-packed floors until near flush spans before them invitingly but offering no rail car to ride along in. After what has been nothing but days of climbing, they descend down a low grade, a gentle and steady downward slope.

None of the three travelers says a thing as McKay assists Sheppard down the tunnel, but the colonel and the Satedan take in every minute detail of Foothold. At first, there is nothing but stillness in the tunnels, but, after a time, much to both Ronon's and Rodney's surprise, when the get deep enough to a wide, round service node where the tunnel branches off towards deeper veins, they find a life and a vibrance there. The air grows warmer and almost balmy in the depths of the mine, carrying with it the pungent scent of the unwashed; Sheppard wrinkles his nose at it but tries to politely ignore the stench upon seeing them. Perhaps two people line the walls amid makeshift furniture haphazardly constructing from overturned milkcrates and wooden boxes, each toiling away at various things from mending filthy clothes, to washing dishes in milky water, to salting fish with kneading rubs. Not a one is younger than the boy who met them above ground. Wary eyes glance up from gaunt, drawn faces to meet their approach. All of them set down their work as their hands drop to their sides reaching towards concealed weapons in clear distrustof the newcomers. McKay merely waves it off and continues on, taking Sheppard and Ronon deeper into the tunnels.

After a time, they come to a weathered door, flaking chips of ancient blue paint; McKay sniffs. "Infirmary. Of sorts." Sheppard smiles gratefully while McKay knocks on the door with a gentle rap. "Bartlett?" There comes no answer; McKay frowns and knocks again. "Bartlett, you there?"

When no one answers, McKay looses his grip on Sheppard. The colonel can stand on his own, but not without due strain. Sweat beads his forehead from the effort as McKay gives one last knock on the door before easing it open. The room lies silent and dark beyond the threshold. McKay's brow knits, prompting Ronon's hand to slide back over his stunner. The physicist shakes his head and takes the flashlight from Ronon before slipping into the room.

The first thing he notices is the heavy scent upon the air, a tingling, warm odor of copper, or iron, metallic and completely familiar. McKay's stomach lurches to recognize the scent as blood, but, then, he reminds himself of Tasera's unfortunate and lethal labor. McKay fiddles with the flashlight, turning it on and casting a narrow beam of intense light into the dark. He sweeps it over the room and freezes.

Sheppard and Ronon exchange glances, but, when McKay takes a few more steps forward and kneels, they see what the physicist sees. A body lies prone and slumped in a chair. A young man. His eyes are closed in what appears to be a tranquil slumber. Yet his hands dangle at his sides, still dripping slick, heavy droplets of crimson into buckets set waiting on either side of the chair. A scarlet stained knife glistens from where it lies discarded on the ground.

It is Bartlett, dead and cold already.

McKay swallows and reaches up almost reverently to touch the face before stopping. Something juts from one of Bartlett's pockets, a triangle of white paper. He carefully pries the paper from the corpse's pocket, finding it to be a letter. McKay unfolds it carefully and quickly skims the scrawled writing in Bartlett's hand. Sheppard reads it over the physicist's shoulder, but only two words mark the paper in jagged black strokes.

_I'm sorry._

McKay lets out a deep breath before looking over his shoulder and speaking solemnly. "Ronon, do me a favor and head back up the tunnel. Tell someone what's happened. Anyone." He stuffs the letter in his pocket and comes back out to help Sheppard into the makeshift infirmary with its unsettling occupant. "They know what to do."

Somehow, that sounds a painful truth that neither Sheppard nor Ronon can deny.

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes : **Hooray! We made it to relative safety! I have been LOVING your reviews!!!! *squeals in delight*

*Addendum : You guys _do _know that just because they left Todd doesn't mean he's out of the picture, right? Todd's got a continued role in this story, I assure you, probably because I love the dynamics between Sheppard and Todd both in SGA and in where _Caliber_ is going. Trust me, I think you're going to like it. *crosses fingers*


	7. Circles for the Blind

**CALIBER - Circles for the Blind**

In his dreams, the Wraith still helms a mighty, grand hive, albeit one bereft of a Queen. Several thousand subordinate males stand at his beck and call, ready to throw down their lives for a male who would dare so audaciously to command a hive in place of a female. It is not his place to rule. It is not any of the males' places. Such is the caste system of the Wraith. Yet, despite that, his hive remains, gloriously persisting in spite of the absence of a Queen.

It is a dangerous position to attain, one of constant guard and caution. The Wraith keeps vigilant of all actions, no matter how mundane. Should the Wraith Queens ever discover such a travesty in betrayal of all their ancient, biologically encoded traditions and instincts, the penalty is most certainly death in any number of gruesome and horrifically painful ways. The Wraith has been aware of this since his time as a young one, the lessons of his kind imbued to him at an early age, befitting of his particular caste. He protects the secret _his_ hive, _his _nest, _his _home with the bitter, clinging tenacity of the most ferocious of Queens in defiance of their ancient ways.

He stands at the bridge of his hive, staring out over a glittering sea of stars dappling the void before him. Galaxies swirl into ornately dusted curls. Stars flare and die before him. The veil of a burnished red nebula paints a deliciously sinful color across a portion of space. If the Wraith felt the need to declare any sentimental attachments, he would have to admit this to be his favorite place in the universe, surrounded by the power of his hive and bedazzled by the endless space spread before him, counting the abundance of locations he could number safe for his hive in the middle of these civil wars and petty but centuries old feuds between Queens that _his _hive rightly has no part in. The vastness offers nothing but the promise of independence and sanctuary from the Queens, something this particular Wraith craves more than anything.

Both the hive and the Wraith are anomalies of sorts, and, in a species such as theirs that values conformity above all else, anomalies are to be squelched out of existence, snuffed out before they can cause any unrest among the population. This Wraith is unique among his kind, for most others do not dream. The species does enjoy a state of rest similar to the deep REM cycles of humans, as well as the pressing, all-embracing hibernating sleep, but without the same psychological component. Only the Queens dream. Upon waking, the other castes recall nothing but a sort of blank skip frame in their awareness left in the dark wake of slumber. It is as though the Wraith of lower castes inherently lack the ability to dream or to remember their dreams, perhaps on a genetic level. This male, however, _does_. In all his time, he has never met another male with the same ability, concerned that he is an evolutionary hiccup of sorts. It is perhaps this feature which allowed him to so brazenly step into the position of power and command his Queen occupied before her untimely demise as opposed to allowing his hive to fall into disarray and become assimilated into the fold of another Queen.

A savory scent trickles through his consciousness as the Wraith dreams, tickling the minute but fine taste buds at his feeding slit and sending the crevasse in his palm crawling in lust. The rich aroma of blood sits thickly upon the air, swallowing the Wraith whole. It severs his focus from the space before him with a shiver. He looks to his palm, to the moving, yearning, _aching _slit. He cannot recall the last time he fed, but it feels as though it has been decades. He hungers.

The Wraith looks up just in time to see the familiar face of the male _skrae _slip between two of his drones before snapping back awake. He is in the basement still, chained about the support column and starving so much that the hunger feels like a live, vicious thing eating him. He is not alone. The sudden draw of breath upon waking through his facial slits carries the scent of another in the room, the male _skrae _of his dreams, along with the rich, metallic scent of human blood. The Wraith tenses against the shackles instinctively, testing them but finding that they remain as secure as before.

The male _skrae _slips from the darkness towards him before crouching just out of the Wraith's reach. The _skrae_ appears calm and tranquil, his expression blank as it has been so perfectly trained and impressed upon him. His eyes carefully study the trapped Wraith before him. If only he would come a little closer, the Wraith might be able to reach with his teeth and draw some sort of sustenance from the traitorous _skrae_. Yet the male lingers just a bit away from him.

The Wraith's gaze drops to the _skrae_'s side. His angled blade rests in one hand, stained crimson along the edge. The other hand is balled into a tight fist, but the Wraith can see the red of the blood squeezing between his fingers. It falls in languid drips to the floor with agonizing patters. The Wraith itches to lunge and to feed, to suck the life from the _skrae _and to be sated at last, but the _skrae _does not move for some time. When he does, it is only to sweep gracefully and casually around to the Wraith's back, holding his hand over the waiting slit in Todd's hand for a moment. Exactly four sumptuous droplets - the Wraith counts each blessed, exquisite, and peppery tasting bit - fall to the slit before the hand and the nourishing blood is drawn away, leaving the feeding slit writhing in hunger and despair at being so denied.

When the _skrae _faces the Wraith once more, he knows. In the absence of John Sheppard, he strips away any and all pretense about what is to become of the Wraith. These actions are calculated and plotted, so clear that no mental probing is necessary to understand what lies so plainly before him. The _skrae _intends for this to be nothing less than excruciatingly long, miserably drawn out, and brutally awful in every sense. The _skrae _knows much about the Wraith and how to use it to his advantage in this sadistic game. He means this to hurt in so many ways, even if he does not outwardly express this.

Todd lowers his head and smirks at the grand irony of it all. There is no way this bastard _skrae _could know the small things he has shared with John Sheppard, particularly his most shameful of admissions from Koyla's captivity. It is an almost cruel jest to have come this far and be brought right back to that.

"Tell me, little _skrae_, if you found yourself burning," he rasps, the words pained by self restraint as he bites back a hunger so sharp that it gnaws away at him viciously. "Would you settle for just one drop?"

xxxx

In time, the Wraith abandon their deadly pursuit, turning back towards the hives that hover so dangerously close over what was once New Jersey to the east. After all, where is the gentlemanly sport in the hunt if the prey does not play by the so-called "fair" rules of engagement delineated by the predator? They will be back soon; they always are. However, for now, the skies remain mercifully empty save the slowly dispersing cloud cover from the early winter storm.

The _skrae _Kylie taps the device at her wrist once more. The screen dims oddly. Kylie draws her wrist up, studying the device secured there. The malfunction is a concern, one quickly filed and earmarked as critical in her mind. While she may not understand the device fully, Kylie is well aware that it is of the utmost necessity for her survival. The huntress cannot afford to take any chances.

She touches her upper arm tenderly, allowing the faintest suggestion of a frown to mar her otherwise expressionless face. A stray bolt from the Wraith weapons has left a charred path across her arm, burnt right through her clothes and down to the flesh. The burn stinks, but Kylie does not afford a wrinkle of her nose nor a scowl. Instead, she probes at the wound. It is but a glancing injury, but it will require attention if it is to heal swiftly.

Kylie turns her mount towards home once more.

xxxx

Ronon strides back up the tunnel from the makeshift infirmary and towards the chamber at the head of the main shaft. This place and these people feel painfully familiar to the Satedan from his years on the run. The people of this planet had always seemed so bold and so brazen to Ronon, proud as Sateda had once been. Now, they are fragile and frightened, driven to the brink. They bear the same hollow look of others he has met in the wake of a bad culling when they bring their gaze up to meet the approaching runner. Earth has become just another entry in a long list of worlds culled by the Wraith.

One of the older women with long locks of silvery white hair stands from her mending to greet him but takes no step towards him. "Yes? Can I help you?"

Ronon does not close the distance between them; he has enough many victims of a Wraith culling to know to survey the survivors first and gauge his actions accordingly. These survivors are wary and uncomfortable about the newcomers. Their tension is wrought in every feature. He allows the few meters to span between them, mindful of how distrusting he had been as a runner.

"Your medic," the Satedan breathes, giving a shake of his head towards the long tunnel down to the infirmary, and, seeing no reason to sugarcoat it, admits, "He's dead."

The old woman is silent for a long moment before she approaches, casting her haze downward. "Too dark to do much now. We'll dig the grave in the morning. Thank you, stranger."

"It's Ronon."

The woman smiles warmly, almost beaming, before extending a dried, gnarled hard for him to shake delicately. "Amerie Jean-Baptise."

He takes her hand and sighs the only thing that sounds appropriate. "I'll dig."

"Thank-you," she says with a small measure of tried gratitude before gesturing to the side of the node where two frail women are cooking on a hot plate. "Why don't you get yourself something-"

"No." Ronon growls. "I'll dig it now."

Amerie blinks in surprise, but the Satedan maintains a level and even gaze to further his offer, garnering a quiet acceptance from the woman. "Alright. There's a shovel at the tunnel entrance and to the right. You can dig 'til shift change when we lock up for the night."

"Deal."

xxxx

Sheppard tries with no uncertain effort to ignore the grizzly occupant of the infirmary as Rodney helps him settle onto a rather lumpy bed haphazardly constructed from similarly sized wooden crates lined by several think blankets. He tries, but with little success. Every time the colonel tears his gaze away to survey the tiny room and the hundreds of maps and filing cabinets that line the walls, suggesting a survey office of some kind, his eyes slide back to the corpse sitting in such quiet, tranquil repose in the chair. The body belongs to a young man, barely an adult, it seems, innocent but aged well beyond his years. Sheppard's gaze constantly drifts to the raw, vertical slashes up the corpse's wrists, dug deeply by the now discarded knife, as well as to the buckets resting beside the chair.

A part of Sheppard ponders so intently what could drive someone so far to do self mutilate or kill themselves. Suicide is not something in John Sheppard to understand. He has always fought, to the very end. Self sacrifice he understands all too well, knowing the eerie calm of weighing one's own life against the lives of many and accepting the necessity of mortality for the benefit and safety of others. This has no benefit, so reason.

He must be staring, for Rodney suddenly speaks in a soft, grave tone as he gathers a metal basin full of supplies and sets it on the bed beside Sheppard. "Barlett didn't take Tasera's passing well."

Sheppard does not press but instead turns his attention to this quiet, contemplative and otherwise dour creature masquerading as Rodney McKay. The man skulks away for but a moment to fetch a bottle of something slightly viscous but water-like as well as a kettle of steaming water. McKay places those on the ground and kneels before Sheppard without complaint, taking the basin and setting it on the ground for easier reach. The colonel sits still, peering over the bed to study the assortment of bandages, needle packages, thread spools, and razor sharp blades Rodney has collected, taking into account the bottle and boiled water. It's like a field hospital right out of the Civil War.

The colonel hisses as Rodney carefully slices through the soiled field dressing and lets the bandage drop to the floor; the physicist winces. "Sorry." When he touches too close to the wound and elicits a wince from the colonel, McKay blurts his apology once more. "Sorry, sorry."

"It's okay," Sheppard grinds out.

And it is somehow. There is pain, tremendously so as McKay delicately manipulates Sheppard's leg to slash the leg of his BDUs up to just above his knee. However, the surreal nature of the scene holds John transfixed. The old would never have been capable of treating anything more severe than perhaps a paper cut without gagging and threatening to vomit, while this Rodney surveys John's leg with an almost disturbing calm and dispassion. His gaze remains even and steady despite the sight of an amount of blood that would have sent the prior incarnation of Rodney McKay reeling in disgust.

When Rodney prods at the wound, Sheppard cannot help but study it as well. The wooden stave in the pit had gone directly through his calf with a sickly ease. In its wake it had left twin puncture wounds that, after such a long hike and days without treatment, appear raw and edged in white. The calf has swollen to an almost comical proportion while the holes themselves weep a yellow tinted fluid. A wreath of red rings both sides of the wounds.

Rodney purses his lips to a tight frown and mutters, "Needs sutures." He glances up to his bedeviled patient, giving Sheppard's thigh a light, reassuring squeeze. "I'm sorry, but we don't have anything to give you for the pain. Ran out last spring when Jacob broke his wrist."

"What about that?" Sheppard tosses his head in the direction of the bottle.

Rodney grimaces and pokes his tongue out. "That stuff? Off the still?" He shakes his head in surprise. "It'd probably make you go blind." McKay sighs and pokes at the wound once more. "No. That's for disinfecting against the however many hundreds of pathogens you've let yourself crawl around in for however long you've been walking on this leg. God knows how many diseases you've picked up on the mountain already."

Sheppard smirks at the momentary glimpse of the old, hypochondriac Rodney McKay lurking beneath the stoic visage of this stranger, this wolf in sheep's clothes. complete with his nervous and near spastic hand motions. However, it fades just as suddenly as it appeared, leaving a solemn silence in its place. Something dark skitters and flashes through McKay's features.

"Rodney?"

The physicist sighs as he fills the basin with the steaming water and dips a cloth in it to begin cleaning the leg, answering with his own, curt question. "Why?"

"Why what?"

Rodney shakes his head, wrings the cloth out, and wipes down Sheppard's leg about the wound, clearing away the dried blood with a tender hand that the colonel never thought possible from McKay. "Why did you come back?"

Sheppard's features twist as the cloth catches upon the edge of the wound. "Todd... he had a message from you about the Gap." He grips the edge of the makeshift bed tighter as McKay continues to gently clean the wound. "Said he could help us find you." The colonel shrugs when he gets no response before adding, "Said he thought you could help him take out the Wraith."

"And you believed him?" the physicist snaps, hurling the soiled and bloodied cloth down harshly with a smacking sound.

The colonel blinks, dumbstruck by the sudden acidity from his once friend. "Rodney..."

"It could have been a trap." McKay fumes as he opens the bottle and splashes a bit of the alcohol over the gaping holes in Sheppard's leg, eliciting a hiss from his patient; he scowls intensely even as he mutters bitterly, "You could have led the Wraith right to our front doorstep."

Sheppard says nothing more; there is nothing more to say. Anything else would taste a lie. The two Lanteans very well could have led the Wraith right to Foothold without being aware of it. His face flushes with heat as though struck, embarrassed by his impulsive mistake. He has no rational defense for bringing the Wraith, Todd, into their midst. Sheppard swallows the lump in his throat and sits in uncomfortable silence, allowing Rodney to clean the wounds in his leg. He does not complain either when Rodney douses a needle and thread in the clear alcohol and pokes the needle through his skin.

It is only when Rodney has skillfully finished suturing the entry wound and shifts to tend to the exit wound that he speaks again in a hushed whisper this time, apologetic in an exhausted and worn way. "Look, I'm sorry."

"No, you're right," Sheppard admits with a tired heave, leaning back onto the bed. "You always are."

McKay shakes his head and rubs his brow, ignoring the blood upon his hands and the smears it leaves across his forehead. "You didn't know." He pauses, gathering his thoughts. "It's just....." He sighs once more, a weighted breath that speaks more than mere words alone. "It's been three years, Sheppard. Three years." A desperation hangs on his words, thick and suffocating. "Do you have _any _idea how long that is?" The physicist licks his lips as he threads the needle once more through Sheppard's flesh, garnering a small grunt from the soldier. "And you never came."

"We tired. We had no Gate access," Sheppard hisses through clenched teeth when the pointed metal dips through his skin again, but the words feel a paltry excuse as soon as they leave the tip of his tongue.

McKay pulls tautly upon the thread to draw the wound closer together before knotting the next suture with a skill the colonel knows the physicist has acquired since the coming of the Wraith before stopped with a small shudder. "I waited for you to come, for _anyone_ to come and save us. But no one did." He stiffens and composes himself before slipping another stitch through Sheppard's flesh. "The first year, I kept myself going think, 'Just watch and see. Sheppard'll come and save the day. He always does.' I was.... I guess I was waiting for the day I'd see _Atlantis _in the sky, coming for us, to save us all from the Wraith." He sounds wistful for a moment, before that glimmer of hope fades once more and leaves nothing but the cold reality of Foothold in its place. "Kept me going for a while."

Sheppard winces visibly, perhaps at the needling digging through his skin or perhaps at the thought that _he _had been Rodney's last great hope that had never come through.

McKay sighs deeply and gives a shake of his head. "It was stupid of me to think you guys would come guns blazing like that, but I figured you always liked to make an entrance. Without a full complement of ZedPMs, there was no way you'd ever get her off the ground and back to Earth in time, let alone in one piece." McKay frowns and pokes the needle through the colonel's skin again to proceed with his line of neat, precise sutures. "After the first year, I knew you weren't coming."

There is a long moment as neither moves, as though held powerless and immobile by the spell woven from McKay's raw admissions. Sheppard has assumed that the years had been difficult, but never before has he heard any indication of it from his once friend. Now, the soldier cannot help but see it written in every subtle twitch and twist to the physicist's face, in every minute inflection change to his words. His heart contracts to see the horrors of three years presented so plainly before him.

McKay gives another deep and pensive exhalation, pulling on the thread to seal the exit wound on Sheppard's calf before settling back slightly. "And.... now.... you're here."

"Rodney, I'm sorry," Sheppard whispers flatly, unsure of anything he could possible say and pretend might make things right; his voice trembles as his body shakes with the pain of having his leg cobbled back together without even the wonderful, warm numbing of even a simple local anesthetic.

McKay gives a quick shake of his head as he tests the sutures and begins to wrap the wound with long strips of gauze. "It wouldn't have made a difference."

Again, an awkward and tense silence blankets the two as McKay continues in his ministrations. Sheppard's leg grinds with a pure, white-hot agony no matter how careful and delicate the physicist's hand. Every heartbeat sends throbbing pain through the colonel's muscles, shooting up the length of his leg from his calf up to his hip and back down to his ankle. The colonel says nothing on this, merely gritting his teeth and holding back the cries of pain that beg to be let loose. When McKay finishes and ties off the end of the neat dressing, Sheppard feels wrung out and exhausted, unable to even hold himself up any longer of his own accord. His body feels heavy and cumbersome; his leaden eyelids sag and droop. McKay sees this, and, in a rare act of compassion, gently arranges Sheppard's limbs so that he lies supine on the makeshift bed, slipping a pillow beneath Sheppard's head and pulling a heavy, warm blanket over the colonel.

When the man turns to leave, the colonel snatches McKay by the wrist to stop him, but the physicist breathes in Sheppard's ear, "Look, you're tired and dead on your feet. Get some rest, now. We can talk later." He snorts oddly. "You're no help if you're dead-dead."

Sheppard gives a slow, drained nod. "Thanks, Rodney."

The physicist stops for a long moment, his eyes sweeping over Sheppard, and the colonel cannot help but wonder what McKay sees now after these years.

The faintest hint of a smile graces McKay's scarred face. "Night, Sheppard."

xxxx

The grim task of digging a grave is short work for someone as strong as Ronon. He works in a terse silence alongside a few of the wiry, tough men of Foothold, strangers to him. The only sounds in the mountains is the scrape of their shovels on frozen earth and loose pebbles as twilight settles and diminishes to near darkness. They solemnly dig a body-sized hole in the ground beside the child's grave for Bartlett.

After a time, a few men emerge from the mine entrance carrying what can only be the body of Bartlett wrapped in scarlet stained sheets, trailed by the residents of Foothold. McKay is among the pallbearers, his face grim as the physicist helps carry the corpse. Ronon steps back and away from the pit to allow them to gently lay the body in the base. The odd assembly rings the open grave, staring in with hollowed eyes. McKay. The woman, Amerie. The child, Jacob. A slew of others that Ronon has not yet learned the names of, men and women, but no children aside from the whelp, Jacob. No one says a word or sheds a tear, but, in a way, Ronon understands that this is all the funeral rites these people can afford mentally and emotionally in these trying days. Long moments pass as the people just stare into the pit at the body of the man who had been their friend.

Finally, McKay's head bobs, and he takes up a shovel to bury Bartlett. The people begin to disperse, especially when Ronon starts to help. Together, they bury Bartlett in the frozen ground, beside the lost baby and the mother. They work together without a word passed between them. Ronon notes this but keeps his head down and his focus upon the grim task.

When the grave is full, only then does Rodney speak, stabbing the shovel into the loose earth and turning his gaze skyward at the depths of the darkening heavens. "That's good enough for now. We'll get the rocks tomorrow."

A plodding sound meets both men's ears, jerking their attention to the wide road that had once led up to the mine. A person stands in the darkness there at the mouth, silhouetted in the dark of the night, leading a solitary horse. Only when McKay spies them does the stranger approach, slowly and soundlessly. Ronon immediately recognizes it to be the smaller of the two _skrae_, Kylie. She clutches her right elbow with her left hand, bearing down as though to conceal and cover, but Ronon can smell the stench of burnt flesh upon her. His nostrils twitch at the sickening odor.

McKay's face melts to concern. "Kylie?" Her head cranes to the fresh grave, and McKay breathes only a name. "Bartlett." She draws near enough the physicist and opens her palm so only he can see the severity of the wound, and the man hisses. "C'mon, and I'll take care of that." He looks to Ronon and gestures with a wave of his hand. "You'd better come on inside, too, before lockup."

Ronon simply nods and follows at they tie up the horse and descend back into Foothold. He tries not to react when heavy, steel bunker doors slam shut behind them with a thundering boom that echoes down the tunnels of the mine. The Satedan allows only a miniscule shiver to roll down his spine when the slamming is accompanied by a clicking sound. He does not like this closed in feeling.

They are locked in now.

Ronon strides just behind the _skrae _and the physicist down the tunnels towards the main node once more. An entirely different set of people occupy the various workstations there, toiling away just as diligently as the first set. Ronon does not miss the scathing glares that they shoot in Kylie's general direction as the _skrae _walks in silence. Ronon can almost _feel _their scorn. Their loathing cannot be hidden, but the _skrae_ pays them no heed as she heels so obediently behind Rodney, still holding her arm by the wound.

A hand graces Ronon's elbow as he passes, and he turns to find Amerie standing beside him. "Let 'em go."

There is a coldness and a distance to her voice, but not the intense and startling disgust that the Satedan might have expected from the woman. The others might absolutely despise Kylie's presence, but Amerie does not seem to harbor those same emotions. Instead, there lies only a callous indifference in the woman, as though the _skrae_'s existence is merely as necessary an evil in the world as the crawling weevils and burrowing insects. Vile and repulsive, yes, but nothing worth expending the effort to truly hate.

Her wrinkled features soften as the old woman gestures towards a side tunnel. Ronon says nothing, but he follows her down into a steadily building stream of people. When the Satedan glances about, he finds himself surrounded by the people who had occupied the central node earlier. Shift change. He follows them to a natural cavern deep in the rock. Amerie hands him a thick, downy blanket before retreating with the others to find a spot to curl up.

Ronon follows suit, but sleeps lightly, with one eye open.

xxxx

Oh, how the Wraith hungers. The heavy scent of iron on the air blankets the Wraith with the enticing scent of life and vitality, a seductive aroma that teases the starving predator and drives him mad. He can taste it through his facial slits, delicious and intoxicating. His feeding slit writhes and twists in his palm, desperate for the lush, savory _vitae _that he knows flows through the _skrae_'s veins a few, short feet away. The male sits just out of reach, his eyes fixated upon the Wraith as the predator strains against his shackles, constantly stretching for the blood that the _skrae _allows to drip on the floor before him, wasted.

Todd cannot help but tug against the shackles, his honey gold eyes locked on the _skrae _that stares so intently back at him. This _skrae _is patient. He draws his cut hand up to the Wraith's face in taunt, so close and so utterly far away. The _skrae _watches as the Wraith's instincts take him, sending him jumping and snapping for the blood in his hunger.

The _skrae _lifts his bloodied hand to his face and licks at the self-inflicted wound. Todd stills, frozen in place by the sight of the act. Even his feeding slit pauses in its agonized struggles, transfixed by the single, heavy droplet that hangs like a ruby on the tip of the _skrae_'s pink tongue. The _skrae _allows his eyes to slip closed, as though in pure rapture. When he spies the look of desperation on Todd's angular face, the _skrae'_s eyes sparkle with delight as he rises and leaves, taking with him the life-giving blood.

Oh yes, the _skrae _knows exactly how to torture a Wraith.

xxxx

"..... knows you didn't mean anything. It was an accident. It happens."

Sheppard awakens to the sound of McKay's voice droning on as the physicist speaks in even whispers to someone. He cracks a cautious eye open to spy Rodney seated on the other side of the room with the female _skrae_, Kylie. Her sleeve is rolled up high on her pale, slender arm, exposing a rather rough looking burn grazing the side of her arm. The stench of blood on the air covers any of the requisite odor of burnt flesh that Sheppard knows should be there. She sits without movement, without a flinch even as McKay tends to the wound, cleaning it with gentle dabs of an alcohol swabbed cloth.

He murmurs on in soft, almost soothing tones to Kylie. "Look, he's been around worshippers before." It takes Sheppard a moment to realize that McKay is talking about him. "He knows they're tricky, and you and Willem were just trying to keep us safe. He'll understand that you didn't mean anything by it."

Sheppard shifts his narrowed gaze to the other side of the room, to where the bloodied chair had been. The corpse of Bartlett is gone, the mess cleared away. The chair itself gleams in the corner under the incandescent lights as though freshly polished.

"Sure, he might be pissed in the morning, but he'll get over it," McKay goes on, rinsing the cloth with a bit more of the alcohol and wringing it out before continuing. "You were doing your job. He'll understand."

John keeps his body still and calm, his breaths even and low, trying to listen and to pretend to be asleep. Yet the _skrae _must know. She must have heard the subtle shift to his respiration or sensed his gaze on her. Her emerald green eyes like flashing jade slide over him, drawing his attention. She holds him in her gaze for an unearthly eerie moment before looking away, casting her eyes downward to the packed, earth floor in what might have been the tiniest glimmer of remorse lurking beneath that pristinely composed veneer of hers.

McKay turns his attention to Kylie's wrist, lifting it by the hand to examine some sort of device there, like the hideous offspring of an LSD mated with an overly complicated wrist watch. "Must have been some seriously close call. Almost blew out the transmitter." McKay slips the thing from her hand and manages a tired smile before setting it aside and returning his focus to the burn, talking idly as though simply to break the roaring silence in the girl's shadow. "I'll have it patched up by morning."

Kylie stiffens beneath Rodney's careful ministrations, her steady stare meeting John's once more. McKay pauses and turns his attention to where she looks, to Sheppard. The girl takes the opportunity to slip from beneath McKay's fingertips. Kylie rises wordlessly and slinks from the room without even the slightest of sounds or indications of emotion.

McKay sighs and does not even look to Sheppard as he gathers up his tools once more. "You could have said hi, been polite and sociable like a normal human being, y'know?"

"So could she," Sheppard counters smartly, giving up on his ruse of feigned slumber and waggling an eyebrow.

"They thought you were a worshipper." McKay kicks at some imaginary pebble on the floor, nudging a nothingness. "There were tons of them running around at one point, trying to infiltrate places like Foothold. Losing the Gap has got everyone on edge, and you _were _just waltzing right up alongside a Wraith."

Sheppard glares. "Still could have asked."

"They didn't know, and experience has taught better than to trust strangers, _especially _strangers who look like they have Wraith friends," Rodney argues. They sit in a tense silence for a moment before either speaks again. "She _is_ sorry." Rodney's voice pleads in a way. "You know that, right?" When Sheppard gives no indication of a reply, McKay jerks his head in the direction of the colonel's bandaged leg. "I should take a look at that, change the dressings."

The colonel says nothing and lets himself drift in the warmth of the blankets and the gentle ministration of Rodney unwrapping the wound for a long moment before whispering, "She could always just say it herself."

"Better chance of finding a vegan Wraith." The physicist huffs a low chortle in flat jest, rubbing the thick muscles at the back of his neck. "No, Kylie..... she just.... she doesn't talk. Ever."

"Why not?" Sheppard inquires curiously.

McKay scratches behind his ear, a gesture of avoidance Sheppard recognizes all too well from the many times he has watched Rodney concoct stories, solutions, and utter fabrications before his very eyes. "Who knows. Something the Wraith did, I guess."

When the gauze pulls away from his wounds, the threads stick and pull. Both men hiss involuntarily through their teeth, but for different reasons. Sheppard peers down to see what McKay sees. Despite the earlier care, the wounds flush an angry red, contrasting sharply against the almost requisite black thread of the stitches. However, Sheppard's field medicine training dictates that this is to be expected of a penetrating trauma. He shall just have to exercise caution in keeping the wounds well cleaned to prevent infection, meaning further douses of the homemade alcohol in his very near future.

Sheppard does not dwell on the thought for long, distracting himself by asking, "And the other one?"

"Who, Willem?" McKay prompts with a raised eyebrow before shrugging and taking the clear swill to pour a measured dram over each of the holes in Sheppard's leg. "Sometimes you can get a word or two out of him, but not much."

Sheppard nods in consideration as Rodney rewraps the calf with clean bandages.

"So what's their story?"

The physicist frowns and drags an overturned blue milkcrate over for him to sit on. "Not one hundred percent sure, really." When McKay spots the look of disbelief on Sheppard's face, he goes on carefully, "Haven't been able to piece it all together yet. We do know the Wraith had them, kept them like.... _pets_." McKay lips thin in disgust as he fidgets slightly his hands. "They got free, but the Wraith had put trackers on those two as soon as they got their hands on 'em, like they didn't want to lose their precious little pets. Kept trying to dig them out like Ronon did. Without the assistance of that wonderful witchdoctor. Beckett, we couldn't remove the trackers safely." The physicist picks up the device he took from the _skrae _and gives it a wave in Sheppard's direction. "So I set them up with some new toys."

Sheppard tentatively takes the device, turning it over in his hands and finding his original assessment to be not far from the mark. The base of it is somewhat like an overly wide divewatch or a leather bracer, complete with straps and buckles meant to hold it quite securely about Kylie's thin wrist. The top bears not a watch face or depth gauge as Sheppard might have expected, but a sort of transmitter of a crudely bludgeoned LSD with parts from a radio of some kind. A miniscule display and face hacked from a cannibalized iPod flickers with a dying light, but Sheppard makes out what appears to be a meter registering near empty battery charge.

"Masks the signal of the Wraith trackers and their normal vital signs. It's just a prototype. Only works on a highly limited range, but it gets the job done."

The colonel nods at both the impressive invention and the odd modesty to McKay's voice, as though this truly is a humble accomplishment. He cannot help but admire the sheer ingenuity of the device, nor the simplicity of the design. It is small, easily concealed, and feather-weight to wear without any discomfort. Yet a part of Sheppard feels wrong not hearing McKay gloating overtly over his own creation, no matter how humble.

He hands it back, his stiff muscles aching in protest, but Sheppard concedes with a tired nod and a hoarse rasp. "Cool. Very cool."

McKay turns the device in his hands. "It needs work." The physicist tucks it into his jacket pocket. "She needs to be more careful." Sheppard swallows, wetting his palette, but McKay is there in a heartbeat, producing a cup of refreshingly cool water. "Drink. Slowly now."

Sheppard listens and takes small sips, clutching the mug to his chest and savoring the icy liquid as it trickles down his throat. "Thanks." He settles back and finds his sights slipping once more more to the freshly cleaned chair in the corner. "What was his story?"

"Bartlett was our resident medic." McKay sighs heavily and almost bitterly in a morose sort of resignation. "Guess he lost one too many patients. Couldn't take it anymore, y'know?"

Sheppard says nothing further on the matter. He knows far too well what it feels like to fight to save someone else and come up short despite all his best efforts. A distant part of the colonel's mind has kept running tally of the lives he has let slip away on his watch. He knows the names of each and every death he has somehow been responsible for, whether directly or indirectly. Sheppard feels Bartlett's sorrow everyday of his life, but, instead of giving in to the pain and ending it, the colonel has used it to fuel him and his every action.

He points to the network of raised, smoothly shining scar tissue patterning the side of Rodney's face. "And you?"

"Me?" McKay's features twist at the thought, and he strokes the scars upon his cheek before the corner of his lips quirks up. "Let's just say it's good to see you again, Sheppard." The physicist rises and ruffles Sheppard's hair in a gesture that unsettles the colonel. "Get some rest."

Before Sheppard can press further, McKay leaves him.

xxxx

Ronon does not start when he hears footsteps approaching though the tunnels. He has been listening cautiously for some time, feigning sleep. The Satedan trains his ears to the sounds. Four sets of footsteps. Yet, when they draw near, five shadows fall over him and pass through the node, striding deeper into the mine. One of the _skrae _is with them.

As soon as they are gone, the runner slips from his place, dancing through the jumbled mess of bodies sprawled on the tunnel floor, to follow. He slinks along the side of the tunnel, trailing the sounds of the footsteps as they descend further into the labyrinth of the Chatham Mine, so deep that the damp warmth from the top of the tunnels actually fades in favor of a chilling, arctic grip that turns his exhalations into steaming puffs. Ronon wonders how deep the mine system extends into the mountain as his ears pop in protest of the pressure.

Voices echo in the rock ahead, muffled by the stone and the reverberations. Ronon furrows his brow and draws near, remaining just out of sight. Ahead, McKay and a small contingent of heavily armed men of Foothold lead the female _skrae _- Kylie - to a thick, steel door nestled in the rock. She moves without sound, without hesitation, striding through the door and into the darkness. McKay seals the door behind her by rotating a wide ring before nodding to the others and turning back towards the top of the tunnel along with one of the other men.

Ronon shifts back into the shadows, pressing against a thick timber and watching as Rodney passes before glancing back to the steel door and the two guards posted outside it. Something does not sit well with the runner about any of this. He waits for a time before making his way back up to the yawning cavern he has subconsciously dubbed the 'barracks' of this place. In his suspicion, he is somehow unsurprised to find Rodney standing at the top of the tunnel, his arms folded sternly across his chest and a look of chiding upon his face.

"I know you followed me." McKay sounds not mad, but annoyed, as he whispers in a hushed voice too keep from waking the others who sleep around them. The physicist shakes his head. "Look, you might not get how things run around here, but everything has a reason. Even if you can't see it."

"I said nothing," the Satedan growls.

McKay frowns. "Yeah, but I know you. And I know that look on your face. You're thinking it's something it's not."

The runner shrugs.

"Just, trust me on this one. It's for _everyone's_ good."

xxxx

A delicious, warm aroma drifts through the air over the heavy scent of sweat, drawing Sheppard from the depths of a restful sleep. Coffee and what might smells delightfully like bacon. He blinks away the bleariness at the edges of his eyes before sitting up fully and pushing the blankets off from him, his leg throbbing in response to the sudden motion. He is alone once more in the makeshift infirmary, but Sheppard can hear the sounds of motion outside in the mines.

Someone knocks gently at the door, and Rodney's voice echoes in the rock as he peers his head in. "You up, Sheppard?"

"Yeah."

McKay gives a nod. "You hungry?"

The colonel smirks. "Yeah."

"Good." McKay hesitates at the door before allowing another awkward nod. "Well, c'mon then. Work to do."

Sheppard chances a smirk. "Saving the world?"

The physicist shakes his head before approaching slowly and helping the colonel to his feet. "Are you kidding me? What's left to save?" McKay goes solemn and still before assisting Sheppard out and into the mine. "Nah. We're putting you and Ronon to work today. Everyone at Foothold works. Greater good and all that stuff." Sheppard shakes his head, and Rodney scowls. "What?"

"If you tell me, 'Live together, die alone,' I may be forced to shoot you."

"Well," the physicist says with a shrug, not deigning even a laugh at the _Lost _reference. "It's the truth."

Sheppard glances down to the bandages about his calf and honestly admits, "Yeah, well, I don't think I'm going to be much use to you with this leg."

McKay sniffs as the pair shamble into the main node. "_Everyone _works."

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes : **Aw, man. I _really _hate being a few chapters ahead of you guys and knowing what's going to happen. *squeals* I hope you guys But I have been adoring your oh-so-lover-ly reviews!

*glomps*

I promise there will be another installment of **Feast of the Samhain **shortly for everyone who's following. Hopefully by the end of the week.

Next chappie : Unsung heroes, more hungry-hungry Wraith, snow, snow, more snow, and did I say snow? Well, there _will _be snow. Lots of it.


	8. Desperate Times

**CALIBER - Desperate Times**

A signal pierces the mountains and the heavens, unheard and unfelt by human senses, cresting to the sky overhead and pooling, waiting to be heard. It pulses at regular intervals, coursing through dawn and rippling through the air, repeating in unique patterning. No other might have noticed, but Tiffany Jane Anderton is unlike many of the survivors. She is careful to a fault. She studies the signal intently, listening in at the near predictable series of crackles and whines she has grown so used to this last year in the mountains.

It bothers Tiffany Jane, this signal reaching out to touch lord knew who in this lonely world. She has kept a keen ear open for anytime the signal might surface once more and sing into the emptiness of Earth's radio frequencies, barren save for the occasional banter between outposts and safe havens. It appears and vanishes without cause or reason before the radio goes silent once more. Tiffany Jane has heard this signal several times, but she cannot yet make any sense of the noises she has grown so used to hearing, like whale-song calling out to her and to some unknown person in the distance.

She has hoped it means other humans survive still in the distance, perhaps beyond the Appalachians and in the West, but Tiffany Jane is a realist. She must be. For the people of her band look up to her for direction, for leadership, and for strength. If there were other people out there, like the people hiding shut in their futile outposts, her band would already be well aware.

Tiffany Jane listens until the sounds die off once more before making a brief notation in a weathered leather journal in a precisely plotted table noting the time, the date, and the duration of the signal, as well as the strength and the seeming repetitive pattern of six cycles of seven distinctive intervals to the sounds. There are many other logs filling the table on the yellowed page, each chronicling another iteration of the signal as well as other noteworthy dates.

_11/12/11 - Gap gone._

_10/31/11 - Move camp. Approx. 3.25 miles NNW. Cyprus Creek area. No issues._

_10/30/11 - 2105 EST- 153 kHz - 250 kW - 12 min. 38 sec. - pulse - 6x7_

_10/07/11 - High Point gone._

_10/01/11 - Move camp. Approx. 2.5 miles ESE. Juno area. Lost one pack of miscellaneous frivolity items. No other issues._

_09/29/11 - 0134 EST - 198 kHz - 50kW - 13 min. 04 sec. - pulse - 6x7_

_09/28/11 - One dog perished in night. Chelsea. Likely old age._

_09/16/11 - Ramapo gone._

_09/09/11 - Move camp. Approx. 4.75 miles WSW. Arcas Ridge area. No issues._

_09/08/11 - 1452 EST - 177 kHz - 500kW - 11 min. 57 sec. - pulse - 6x7_

On and on the notes go back to shortly after the Wraith arrived, tersely detailing the survival of Tiffany Jane and her little band. There was a time, when she first noticed the radio signals, that the camp moved only after another outpost fell to the Wraith. Now, they have learned better. As soon as a signal is picked up, they break camp immediately and move on _before _the culling and the death start.

Tiffany Jane shifts her weight, leaning across the bedroll spread across the floor of her tent and crawling to her pack. Her nimble hands pluck a battered topographical map and a pen. She chews absently on the end of the pen, studying the waving lines that designate elevation changes to the mountains.

"Another signal?"

Tiffany Jane cocks her eyebrow at the sound and rips the oversized headphones off her ears roughly, whipping about in irritation before softening and smiling. It is only Zeke. The African American rubs his damp face, scraping away the last remnants of shorn stubble from his cheeks and head.

Tiffany Jane sighs. "Yup."

"Moving soon, then?" Zeke presses.

"Yup."

The pattern is clear now to Tiffany Jane and utterly undeniable, so much so that her people unquestioningly follow when she tells them it is time to move once more. They will not appreciate having to move now with the snow, but they will comply without even the slightest of complaints. They have seen the pattern for too well now not to trust her judgment.

The dark skinned man nods. "The others are just going to _love _that, Klutch."

"They'll deal."

xxxx

"Here."

McKay allows his hold to slip as he eases Sheppard down and into a nylon camping chair. The colonel smiles uneasily at the assistance and gives a halfhearted wave as Rodney trots off, unused to such attentive care from this man. Sheppard is not a man accustomed to be tended to, nor one who willingly accepts it. Yet, when faced with McKay's accusing scars, he cannot help but swallow his pride and allow it, even as he shivers with a passing cold chill at the thought.

The main node swells with occupants that Sheppard does not recognize from the prior night. The survivors in their filthy, patched clothes form an ordered line and gather up plates or bowls from an assorted pile of dishes, some yawning widely as they do. A sort of cook station has been set up along the far side of the node from Sheppard's spot, tended by the white-haired Amerie. The elderly woman beams warmly at Rodney and ladles him two plates of what appears to be a thick porridge. They exchange a few words that Sheppard cannot hear over the clamor of dishes, idle chatter, and shuffling feet before McKay ambles back to Sheppard's side.

"Breakfast is served," McKay says with a small flourish.

Sheppard smiles slightly, curling his hands about the bowl and relishing the warmth of the porridge. "Thanks."

McKay must notice the tremble to the colonel's hands as he digs into his own breakfast. "It's the caves. The mine stays in the mid 50s all year 'round no matter how cold it gets outside." McKay fidgets with the spoon, nervously stirring at the hot cereal. "It's why we picked here. Well, that and the Wraith can't pinpoint life signs underground very well."

"A good plan," the colonel acknowledges, savoring the heat of the breakfast compared to the chilled air of the mines.

McKay pauses for a moment as what might be regret flashes through his features; the physicist shakes it off, forcing an overly friendly grin, clapping Sheppard on the upper arm, and saying, "Well, eat up. Loads of work to do today." He spots the curious quirk to Sheppard's expressions. "We're not making it to the Gate anytime soon. Not safe to travel without cover, so you're just going to have to sit tight through the winter. We have forty-three, no, forty-one survivors here." The physicist corrects himself once more, "Well, okay, forty-three now including you and Ronon. Anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters is we all pull our load."

"Fair enough," Sheppard admits before pointing to his injured leg. "But I still don't think I'm going to be much use to you."

"Already got a use for you," McKay states simply. "Three primary shifts rotate guard duty, cleaning, cooking, hunting, planting, harvesting, what not. An auxiliary group handles everything else from basic maintenance, repairs, mending, first aid." Rodney waves his hand in a small circle. "You get the idea. Anywho, I was thinking you could..."

Motion at the low tunnel catches Sheppard's attention as Rodney trails off. Kylie strides up from one of the lower tunnels of the mine, her ghillie suit fluttering with her every step, followed quite closely by two of the bulkier men of Foothold, both heavily armed. All conversation dies as soon as the _skrae _sets foot in the node as all eyes train upon her. Tension hangs upon the air, stifling and thick, as the _skrae _passes and takes a bowl of food. She ignores the stares and walks in silence, her tattooed face held high and her face expressionless. The _skrae _takes to the main tunnel and ascends towards the surface. Seconds after the hunter and her strange companions pass, Ronon follows up the tunnels. Finally, conversation resumes, although in low murmurs now.

Rodney waves it off. "I was thinking you could clean and service the few guns we have, fix any of the ones I couldn't." He prods at the bowl. "Maybe I can hack together a shell press for you."

Sheppard's brow knits, still dwelling on the unusual parade. "What about Kylie and Willem?"

Both names come out as harsh, venomous spits.

"Hrm?" McKay barely looks up from his breakfast.

"What do they do? Plant crops? Hunt? Do the dishes or laundry?"

The physicist chuckles under his breath, nearly choking on a spoonful of porridge. "Them? No. They do their part. Just... not here."

Sheppard does not need further explanation. The unusual exchange between Kylie and the whole enclave of Foothold says enough. These people not trust the _skrae_, nor appreciate their presence. The feeling is mutual.

Rodney runs his fingers through his hair. "You said something that Todd wanted to see me?"

"Yeah."

The physicist nods. "I'll ride down to ABC once the snow clears up a bit." The colonel sighs in response and forces himself to his feet, growling with the effort, garnering a squeak from Rodney. "Jesus, Sheppard! You should be staying off your feet."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just going to take some grub to Ronon." Sheppard's lips curl into a faint smile. "Quit worrying. You sound just like Carson, y'know?"

McKay blanches at the joke. "You take that back!"

Sheppard chortles to himself, shaking his head as he staggers up the mine to the top. He will never take something like that back. The ascent up the mine is difficult, but he needs the fresh, winter air and the clarity of pure, unyielding abandon in the endless blue skies.

xxxx

The snow crunches beneath the _skrae_'s feet as she skims lightly and easily over the thick blanket towards the string of horses while the ragged edges of her ghillie suit whispers above the snow. Large, thick heads lift at the sound of her approach, and a few deep nickers rattle in their broad chests in greeting. She ignores the sounds in favor of setting the hefty western saddle down into the snow and draping the bridle and reins over it. Only then does she approach one of the horses, a clear bay with a crisp white snip on its nose, and strokes down the long lines of muscle running down the gelding's neck.

Kylie does not chance a glance over her shoulder, but she feels the eyes upon her. The big man she brought up the mountain for McKay - Ronon, she recalls - stares daggers into her slender back from the entrance to the mine. Let him stare. Let them all stare. The scorn of other humans is nothing new to the _skrae. _These refugees and survivors of Foothold have saddled the two _skrae_ with near countless names and passing insults. Traitors. Wraith-lovers. Bootlickers. They spout an endless stream of rumors and stories of the _skraes_' supposed crimes against their species, spinning yarn after yarn of how she and Willem bowed down and sold their souls to the Wraith. Ronon's hate is only a small flicker compared to the flames the others hold for her.

While the _skrae _does not appreciate the hatred, she does not blame him, nor the others for their loathing either. The Wraith branded the _skrae _with their identity and those twisted, angled scars long before the people of Foothold did. Kylie bears their marks and will bear them forever, regardless of whatever sentiments the others mild hold.

Kylie hoists the saddle onto the bay's rounded back.

It is time to leave Foothold once more.

xxxx

"Thought I'd find you out here."

Ronon does not turn to face Sheppard, even as he admits, "I don't like being locked in."

Neither man says anything for some time, just listening to the roaring silence of the mountains, watching as Kylie lifts the saddle from the ground and sets it just a hair above the horse's withers before skillfully slipping in down and into place. She tugs at the coarse, brown stained saddle blanket to smooth it out.

It is Sheppard who broaches the silence. "She's a runner."

Ronon cocks a curious eyebrow at Sheppard's strained statement. He has stood in silence for some time, watching in wordless vigil over the _skrae _since the people of Foothold let her loose in the morning, allowing her to dress in her ghillie and walk under heavy guard. He has followed her from the base of the mine to the top, leaning up against the rippled tin sheeting and folding his arms across his chest against the driving cold of the snow. The Satedan studies her as aptly as any quarry, memorizing her patterns and gestures.

The Satedan shrugs. "So?" Ronon glances to the haggard and pale man at his side who has obviously limped by himself up from the main node judging from the sheen of sweat across his features. "How's the leg?"

"It's there." Sheppard heaves before wincing and leaning back against the cold metal. Then, he sighs and holds out a steaming bowl, announcing, "Brought you some breakfast. At least, I think that's what it's supposed to be."

Ronon accepts the bowl and raises his lip in disgust. The colonel cannot help but smirk at the twisted grimace. The once delectable breakfast has congealed into sickly grayish slop of what have been Cream of Wheat or oatmeal _before _the Wraith arrived. The thick goo vaguely reminds Sheppard of the seemingly innocuous yet likely lethal "grits" served every morning during basic training. Judging by the expression on Ronon's face as he simply shakes his head in faint bemusement and sets the bowl beside him, the Satedan equivalent of basic training insisted on a similar breakfast for grunts.

"McKay tell you she's a runner?" The Satedan inquires, his gaze still following the motions of Kyle as she tightens the cinch about the horse's chest.

Sheppard nods. "Yup."

"He tell you they lock her up at night?"

The colonel blinks in earnest surprise and confusion at the admission. "No."

Ronon scowls intensely when the _skrae _takes up her bridle and expertly sorts the reins and assorted lengths of leather. "They do."

Sheppard's lips purse to a tight, inscrutable frown. "Sucks to be her?"

Ronon gives a long, slow nod in response, still watching the _skrae _intently as she deftly bridles the horse.She is a distant memory of himself borne to human flesh and blood, a grim reminder of his time on the run from the Wraith. A part of Ronon wonders whether if he behaved this coldly and curtly so very long ago when the Lanteans- then complete strangers - so willingly opened their home and hearts to him, welcomed him when no one else would. It does not hurt, but it does irk him in a way to think of either of the _skrae_.

"You tell McKay about Sam?" John blurts out softly, almost hesitantly.

Ronon shrugs. "Didn't see the point." He gestures with a tiny dip of his head to the ankle-deep blanket of downy snow upon the ground. "Doesn't look like we're going anywhere anytime soon with this weather with your leg like that."

Sheppard says nothing, staring out into what would seem a winter wonderland if it did not seem so ghastly morbid to find any beauty in such a place. Ronon has a point. The snow is not too heavy to move about the mountains, but there is no telling what lies beyond this particular range or in the area about Cheyenne Mountain. If they are to move anywhere now in this dead world, they must be cautious. There is absolutely no sense risking the lives of these refugees who have already survived so much by the simple hubris of ignoring the seasonably frigid and inhospitable conditions of the mountains.

Ronon turns his attention to the man beside him with a sly, sideways glance, hoping Sheppard does not see it. The colonel sags against the wall, clearly exhausted from the long walk up the mine to the surface. His features hint at a carefully guarded pain. His hands ball into tight fists, as though Sheppard bites back the suffering he is so clearly in. His heart must be racing judging from the fluttering tremble at his neck. Sheppard can barely make it the two hundred foot length from the main node to the top of the mines without a struggle. No. Ronon cannot foolishly risk returning to Colorado until he is certain Sheppard can actually make the journey.

"You look like hell."

"I _feel _like hell," the colonel concedes, shifting his weight.

Kylie snatches up the reins in one hand and rests it on the pommel, swinging up and into the saddle neatly. She sits for the briefest of instances, bridging the reins in her hands. Then, Kylie's leg eases back with a subtle squeeze, and the horse walks on, down towards the trail and back towards the wilderness. She does not look back, not even when Ronon sniffs curtly.

"Where's she heading?"

Sheppard shakes his head. "Not a clue."

xxxx

The male _skrae _is skilled and clearly highly knowledgeable about Wraith physiology. He toys with his captive, running his angled kukris over the creature's pale, mottled grey-green skin. He carves deeply with a firm and precise hand, but not too deeply. He intends to keep his pet alive for some time, judging by the precision of his actions. The _skrae _cuts just enough to trace patterns into the Wraith's skin, intricate webs that the Wraith instantly recognizes as the tattooing of his people. Sticky, ebony ichor oozes to the ground from the gashes in thick rivulets to where they pool together in a black, gleaming slick about the Wraith.

In his voracious hunger and under the feral eyes of the _skrae_, the Wraith's mind drifts back to distant days long before the Lanteans first broached the galaxy of his kind, the realms that they refer to as Pegasus but has never had a name in any pronounceable human tongue. There was once a time when the Wraith flourished, and the bountiful night skies glittered with the dazzling lights of thousands of hives. The Wraith were fat, well-fed, and numerous then, glutting themselves on the fruitful worlds of their respective systems with delight until they grew soft and pliable, almost as much so as the delicate creatures they supped upon. The worlds bore much, and their worshippers outnumbered the Wraith perhaps three to one or more, depending on the hive. Even the Queens seemed at peace during those glorious centuries. During that golden age of his kind, the Wraith were unopposed and languished in their hubris.

It was during that age that the tradition of the _skrae _evolved. The worshippers were an inevitability of a race as clearly superior in both physical and technological aspects of the Wraith. Every advanced race has their share of following lesser creatures hoping for some measure of mercy or benevolence, like small dogs yipping for attention and squabbling at their heels for some crumb of the fineries at their master's table. It is only the naturally outgrowth that the weaker, pallid humans would eventually learn to be tamed by their Wraith masters.

The _skrae, _however, have never been a natural occurrence in any sense. The Queens always show their favor to a few of their worshippers, even to this day, offering trinkets and the gift of the radiant touch of any Wraith who thirsted for them, but the _skrae _are different. They are the chosen of their Queens for their varied talents to be trained in the ways of their service, and it is this selection alone that has traditionally protected the _skrae _from the hive. By their laws, as the personal property of a Queen, not a warrior, drone, nor any other can touch a Queen's _skrae _without her leave. That is how unique they are and have always been.

The Wraith lifts his golden gaze to the male _skrae _before him, curious now. The tattoos of the _skrae _serve a similar function of the markings upon the Wraith themselves. The _skrae _serve different positions for their Queens depending upon their individual skills. Artisans. Entertainers. Linguists. Whatever suited their Queen's fickle fancies. When their kind first emerged from the ranks of the worshippers, during that golden era when food was plentiful, some _skrae _served as emissaries between the hives, bearing the marks of their Queen's service. Their markings indicate their purpose, this one as an entertainer just as the female. Todd ponders what great value they served their Queen. As dancers, perhaps? The Queens have often favored those who graceful and artistic movements, Todd's in particular doting upon her dancers. Or perhaps an artisan, granted the skillful hand that trails just grizzling curls across the Wraith's flesh.

The _skrae _shifts his weight, the motion startling the slavering Wraith as he slips back and away from his plaything. The Wraith's feeding slit writhes and squirms in his palm, desperately begging to be sated. The Wraith strains against his bonds, jingling the chains, but the _skrae _does not move, keeping his blue eyes upon the beast before him. The _skrae _shows no fear, not even the faintest of tremble to those impassive features when faced with the captive Wraith. He has no reason to fear, for to have been a _skrae _is to have been in the presence of several Wraith and to be at the mercy of a Queen. A shackled, starving Wraith is a small matter to a _skrae_.

In his pain, Todd's mind flitters back to the _skrae _his Queen offered him. He - for it had been a male - had been one of the Queen's very greatest dancers, lithe and agile as a cat. The _skrae _had danced for the delegation of commanders, a wild, spinning thing, before the Queen allowed Todd his favor. The blood had been hot and warm, peppery almost, and utterly delectable. The feeding slit cries out in memory of the _vitae_, the very life and essencethat had flowed from the _skrae_. It had been, without a question, among the finest feeding of Todd's life.

Yet that had only been a passing joy compared to the dreams and images the _skrae _allowed. To feed upon a human is the catch fleeting glimmers flickering and bubbling up from their subconscious. In Todd's experience, these thoughts are often nothing more than the idle prattle and the vain pleas to various gods for some clemency. In John Sheppard, Todd had felt and seen only a pure, radiant defiance, burning brightly down to his core, an intoxicating and gloriously blinding thing that nearly completely undid the half-starved Wraith there and then.

Unlike other worshippers, the _skrae_ once chosen, no matter their varied talents, are trained in not only courtly protocol but also the finest of arts to conceal their thoughts and draw forth pleasing imagery for the Wraith feeding upon them. It is an ancient tradition like no other, meant not only for pleasure but also protection should a Queen offer or lose her _skrae _to another. The training procedures remain a carefully guarded secret, but the effect is unquestionable. These are old practices, no longer in favor for they take great time and resources that a species pushed to such limits as the Wraith can ill afford.

Todd's mind clings back to the long faded memory of that day, to what thoughts his Queen's pet drew forth for him, but the harder he grasps, the more it slips away, hazy like the recollection of any dream. He vaguely recalls the Queen drawing forth her _skrae _and wordlessly commanding the creature to kneel before him. It had been a great surprise for the Queen to offer him such a gift. There had been a moment of hesitation when Todd looked to his Queen for assurance, and she had assured him in gentle croons and delicate mental tugs that this boon was for him for his service. And, when he had touched the _skrae_, fed upon him, his mind had lit up with a dizzying and drugging blur of flashing lights and colors that the Wraith can no longer accurately recall. He had taken only the smallest bit from the _skrae _under the Queen's watchful eye, savoring every minute sup.

The male _skrae _stands once more before the chained Wraith and strolls behind him. When a few more searing droplets of blood patter to the Wraith's feeding slit, he wonders what images this particular _skrae _before him would offer if fed upon.

Todd feels the quiver of a smirk upon his lips as the _skrae _leaves him there in the dank basement. He does not need to wonder. When he is free of this place and these people, he will find out what this _skrae _can show him. And, like the once great lord of a hive he is, the Wraith will make this _skrae _bow before him as he rightfully should. In good time, the Wraith will have his fill and hunger no more.

xxxx

"Hey, you."

Ronon glances up at the voice that calls to him. The runner has spent the better part of an hour in the main node disassembling his stunner and piecing it back together with skill, enamored with the care of his own weapon until now. A middle aged fellow with shaggy copper hair stands before him in bulky winter clothing and red flannel jacket, a sound looking rifle slung over his shoulder, a pistol strapped to his hip. The stranger smiles almost benevolently down at the Satedan.

Ronon raises an eyebrow and, when the stranger does not say anything, asks, "Yeah?"

"You hunt with that thing?" the stranger inquires, his head bobbing in the direction of the stunner in the Satedan's massive mitts. "Or just pretend to be a bad-ass with it?"

Ronon turns his head, cracking his neck with overly dramatic and echoing pops for effect. He draws a pregnant breath, setting the parts to the stunner down on crate before him in a neatly ordered arrangement, stilling for but the smallest of moments before flying into action. His fingers and hands move too swiftly to be seen in a whirl over the parts, dancing with a practiced skill over familiar and comforting metal. Ronon reassembles the stunner in record time and, then, exhales. He looks up to the stranger, flashing a cocky smirk.

The stranger chuckles. "Alright, so you can handle a gun." He extends a hand to the Satedan to shake his hand. "I'm Sulley."

"Ronon."

Sulley nods for a moment, rocking slightly from the balls of his feet to his heels before asking, "Ya still didn't answer my question. You hunt with that thing?"

"I can manage," Ronon replies with a teasing shrug of one shoulder.

"Then, c'mon. You're with me."

Ronon rises and follows the hunter out and into the brisk winter air. It is early, and a pale, pink cast paints the predawn sky, reflected slightly in the snow that blankets the mountains. Orange-gold clouds dapple the sky in ornate patches. Both his and Sulley's breaths hang in a frozen fog before them. Sulley glances to his side to the Satedan, but Ronon just walks on, into the woods. They stalk together through the early, pristine twilight of the silent, lonely mountains, scanning for any faint signs of animal activity and finding no tracks, no scat, not a trace of life of anything larger than perhaps a squirrel or other small game. Once, Ronon thinks he spies the smoothed "u" shape of horse shoes in the snow leading South, but he largely ignores it.

A few hours pass, and Sulley swears, kicking at the base of a dead, twisted tree and knocking loose wet clumps of snow from the lower branches. "Damnit. There isn't anything left alive on this mountain anymore worth hunting."

Ronon shrugs. "So why hunt this mountain? Do you follow the same sweep pattern usually?" When Sulley nods, Ronon points to the next gracefully and smoothly rounded peak over. "You're driving your game South. If we move fast, we can make it to that one tomorrow. Hunting should be better there."

Sulley stiffens strangely. "We don't go there."

"Why not?" Ronon inquires curiously.

The hunter shakes his head and explains cryptically, "That's Klutch's mountain."

Ronon notes it but otherwise ignores the comment in favor of studying the ground for any further sign of animal life and finding none. He does not dare ask about the hoof prints leading South. Not yet. They move on.

xxxx

A day passes, followed by another, and another. McKay watches as John and Ronon settle in to the daily routine of life at a snowed in Foothold, Sheppard repairing and servicing the few pistols and rifles they have while Ronon assists Sulley with the hunting and foraging in varying degrees of success. McKay gradually introduces them to the _new _status quo of life in this shattered America, showing them every facet of Foothold, from the tiny chamber at the base where water is boiled for baths, to the side tunnel where a bike generator is kept in constant motion to power the lighting through the mines. They easily adjust to the patterns of life.

The two newcomers seem wary and uncomfortable, but Rodney continually reminds himself that this is how every appears when first joining their camp. The rest of Foothold remains equally as cautious about Sheppard and Ronon. It is difficult to trust so easily with as many worshippers running around in the world to ferret out the last, dying enclaves of humanity in these mountains and with people like Klutch and her kind out there. However, with the mountains snow blanketed as it is, there is little sense trying to make a run for the SGC, not until spring when it is safer to travel, and, with time, the tension eases.

Over the days, the travelers learn scant bits of information about the people of Foothold revealed in passing gossip. Amerie is a Catholic nun, occasionally spotted fingering a battered set of white rosary beads in her pocket; the women of Foothold seem to think struggles to regain her lost faith in what they call "God's plan." A burly, muscle-bound and sour-faced man named Eric is a recovering alcoholic and drug addict who has apparently found the God that Amerie feels has abandoned her so, becoming a resident pastor of sorts to a scant flock of a few converts. Jericho is a twenty-eight year old former marine biology student who wanted desperately to save the world's coral reefs but not only strives to ensure that all the fish caught and salted are safe for consumption granted the degrees of pollution to the streams, rivers, and lakes of America. Sulley was a multimillionaire software developer whose weekend retreats from his nagging wife - who he now misses dearly - for sport hunting days have become utterly invaluable in feeding Foothold. Everyone has their own story, tied together only by a common fear of the Wraith.

It is on the fourth or fifth day that the shadow of discomfort dissolves when Jacob asks the simplest of questions over a crude dinner of rough, venison stew. "So, are you _really _Colonel Sheppard?"

Sheppard blinks at the question, dumbfounded. "Yeah... why?"

The teenager grins from ear to ear. "McKay's told us all about you!"

"Oh, really, now?" Sheppard flushes, glaring at the physicist who hunches over his bowl as though trying to hide.

"Yup. McKay tells me all about your adventures fighting the Wraith!"

The boy's excitement is contagious and, within minutes, Sheppard finds himself launching into a wild slew of tales of _Atlantis. _He finds himself straying towards the more comical adventures, like some of the times spent on a world populated entirely by children. He finds himself recounting the time the children threatened war with the Lanteans unless Sheppard married one of their own, a six year old, petulant and utterly devious little girl by the name of Priti or unless he coughed up the Playstation 2 someone had brought to Pegasus and unwittingly showed the children. Occasionally, Rodney pipes up with his own snide commentary, and Ronon briefly adds as well before leaving for a bit of freedom before the mine is shut in the for the night. By the end of the story, the entire shift is in stitches, laughing and hanging on the words as though this is the way it has always been in Foothold. Even McKay finds himself chuckling despite himself at the memories of what feels an entirely distant lifetime.

However, when Sheppard shivers at the end of the tale and draws a blanket tighter about his shoulders, the warm nostalgia dissolves in favor of a gripping concern. The mine is relatively warm that night, and, despite the obvious chills, the colonel's brow glistens with minute beads of sweat. McKay watches Sheppard studiously through the rest of the night, his gaze following the colonel closely.

"Did you come to save us?" the boy asks in a hushed, anxious whisper.

Sheppard instantly feels the burning gaze of all the people of Foothold upon him - Rodney included - as he nervously struggles to formulate an appropriately honest yet comforting answer, grudgingly settling finally for, "I'm working on it."

The others nod slowly and murmur in what seems approval.

When the meal draws to a close and the shift disperses to the lower node and Sheppard shambles to his feet, McKay slips an arm about him before the colonel can pitch over. "C'mon. Let's get a fresh dressing on that leg."

Sheppard does not argue; this is merely a part of their daily routine. Every morning before breakfast and every evening before bedding down, Rodney unwraps the wounds about his calf, checking the sutures and rinsing the injuries with another wash of the grain alcohol before rewrapping it. The colonel has become oddly accustomed to the treatment, even if it is from McKay. The physicist helps Sheppard limp down the tunnel to the makeshift infirmary, settling him down onto the lumpy bunk, opening the bandages as though it is all part of the routine. However, when he pulls away the gauze, McKay's eyes cloud uncertainly; that is not lost to Sheppard.

The colonel frowns and teases, "So, how does it look, doc?"

McKay does not want to tell the man, as he is not sure. The wounds look just as raw and angry as they had when he first stitched them. However, the red border about the punctures appears larger, wider. Or perhaps it is just a trick of the paltry light from the incandescent bulbs. McKay's fingertips gently brush the surrounding area about the wounds, finding the flesh swollen.

"Looks good," McKay lies expertly, even feigning a credible smile.

Sheppard knows it is a lie, but he allows it just the same. Sheppard can feel it. His leg aches and throbs with every heartbeat. His body alternates in an elaborate play between a scorching burn and an arctic chill.

The next morning, when McKay checks the wounds again, the border appears wider once more. The physicist furrows his brow, certain that there had only been a mild edging the night before. When McKay probes the area, he finds it flushed with heat. He almost jerks his hand away in surprise but forces his hand to stay when he sees the look of thinly veiled worry in Sheppard's hazel eyes. He puts on a forced smile once more for the colonel's benefit, but, before he wraps the wound once more, the physicist outlines the scarlet blush with a marker, just to be certain.

Ronon clears his throat at the door frame, drawing their attention before he growled. "Travis says snow's melting."

Rodney nods; it is time to face the Wraith.

xxxx

Sheppard argues vehemently that he should go as well down the mountain to the cabin where they still hold the Wraith, but McKay forbids Sheppard from going to see the descent party off. In fact, the physicist has posted Amerie on infirmary duty to ensure that the doctor's orders are followed to the letter, no matter how the colonel protests or complains. Amerie is a tough woman, and McKay knows she can match wits with the colonel. The nun will keep Sheppard off his leg for a while.

The physicist and the runner saddle two of the massive horses and swing into the saddles. Ronon gives one last look to the wide clearing and the blue skies yawning overhead dappled with lazy white puffs before the two turn their mounts back towards the trail. They ride together in silence for hours down the mountain, sinking back and deep into the saddle and allowing the horses to meander loosely downhill. The snow is wet and slick beneath their hooves along the trail, and the pair allows the horses to take their time finding secure footing amid the slop of snow and thick mud.

When they reach the cabin, the two _skrae _are waiting in their heavy camouflage. Ronon says nothing, slipping from the saddle in time with Rodney and landing easily on the mud with a revolting squelching sound. The female _skrae, _Kylie, steps forwards and takes the reins from McKay when they are offered to her. She turns to Ronon, waiting and staring with expressionless, emerald eyes. Ronon scowls and stuffs the reins in her hand in a huff, following Rodney and the other _skrae_, Willem, into the cabin.

When they clamber down the steps to the basement once more, both McKay and Ronon are struck by a sickly smell. It is metallic and biting, like blood on the air, but different somehow. Sweet and sour all at the same time, choking in a way. Ronon's nostril twitches uncomfortably at the scent that he recognizes all to well as Wraith blood.

He peers into the cimmerian shades to the pale and drawn figure still fettered in the same place. The Wraith looks worse now than before, haggard and paler than would seem possible for his kind. Sweat and black blood streak his exposed flesh, where the curled sigils of the Wraith have been sliced with impressive precision. His golden eyes remain unfocused, even as the Wraith lifts his gaunt face to find the source of the approaching sounds.

"Ah, Rodney McKay," he greets with a sickly wheeze.

McKay flinches at the sound of both his name and the whistle to the Wraith's every labored breath. While Sheppard has witnessed a Wraith in a state of dire starvation - this specimen to be exact - McKay has never had that pleasure. The creature is suffering, Rodney recognizes simply. It sends delicious and alien shivers down his spine of both delight and repulsion mingled together.

"Todd," Rodney responds flatly, folding his arms across his chest. "Heard you wanted to talk to me."

"Perhaps." Those honey colored eyes shift, sweeping over those before him in study. "Where is John Sheppard?"

Rodney frowns and snarls, "I ask the questions, not you." He glances to Ronon and shrugs sheepishly upon seeing the Satedan roll his eyes. "Always wanted to say that." He nudges the Wraith with the toe of his boot. "So? Out with it."

The Wraith's lips thin. "I require your.... assistance."

"With?"

The Wraith shrugs slightly, rattling the chains that hold him so securely. "I am in need of an amplified power source to establish an outgoing wormhole and overload the device you call the 'Stargate' at the precise point of wormhole destabilization."

Rodney blinks in horror. "What? Are you _insane_?!? If you blew the Gate with an open wormhole...." The physicist's eyes flicker, his mind churning over the infinite possibilities before settling on the most probably one. "A black hole. You want to make a black hole?" At the confused look on Ronon's face, the physicist quickly explains, "If the Gate overloads with an outgoing wormhole closing, the excessive energy would create a gravitation collapse and fuel a massive singularity event, like punching a hole in space-time that sucks everything in. Even light." McKay crouches close to the Wraith. "Why? Why would you want to do that?"

"My reasons are my own," the Wraith purrs.

Rodney shakes his head. "No. There's no way you could..... you would be killed, too. Everything..... everyone." The physicist flaps his hand awkwardly, as though gesturing at the grand enormity of the world about them in question. "It would _all _be destroyed." His brow knits, and McKay licks his lips before asking fretfully once more, "Why would you do that?"

"I have already answered your question."

McKay starts, jumping back before growing angered once more. "No. There could be other people left." The Wraith looks up, imploringly, begging in a way, and the physicist draws close, so close that his breath is hot upon the alien's skin. "Never." Rodney straightens, smoothing his sweater. "We'll just...." McKay looks to Ronon and snaps his fingers as though in a spark of genius. "You guys came through alright. We'll just round up as many people as we can and gate out of here."

"The power source I crafted to bring John Sheppard and Ronon Dex here was a temporary solution," the Wraith intones, his voice strained with the effort of his composure.

"We don't need to go all the way out to Atlantis. Just anywhere but here," McKay argues.

"Without an appropriate power source, the Stargate will not function for _any _travel," The Wraith sneers as he says that, his lips curving in what seems certain victory, his eyes lighting up for the first time through the entire conversation.

McKay's features twist, colored by a pure rage that does not seem fitting for Rodney before he composes himself and gathers himself into a tightly contained resignation. "Then no one is going anywhere, because I'm not making your damned power source."

Ronon winces slightly at being remanded to permanent residence in a world overrun by the Wraith, but he does not argue. McKay speaks with such a painful possessiveness that it borders on obsessive, his voice hitching with a desperation so intense that it consumes him, burning through him and his blue eyes. It almost frightens Ronon in a way, but the Satedan recalls the choking, hazy rage of seeing his home world culled to nothing by the Wraith. He knows the physicist will not yield on this matter, will not so willing consign his world to annihilation. Todd glares, but Rodney merely gives an affronted flounce and stomps up the stairs. And, with that, they leave the Wraith.

_"Foolish humans, so easily strayed from the path by their petty, frail sentiments. No matter,"_ the Wraith thinks with a chuckle as footsteps clomp overhead.

The male _skrae _approaches silently once more, but the Wraith can only smirk at the hunter. Todd will find his power source even if McKay so stubbornly and foolishly refuses to assist, clouded by his morals. No matter at all. The Wraith alone will end this if necessary.

xxxx

The pistol that Sheppard had been working on slips from his lap to the floor with a clatter. The colonel jerks awake at the sudden sound in the stillness of the makeshift infirmary with a start, blinking in disorientation. The incandescent lighting of the mine has been shut off, but someone has left a kerosene lamp upon the milkcrate turned down to illuminate the room with pale, orange flickers. Sheppard glances at his watch and presses the side button to light it up with a green glow, before sinking back into the bed and rubbing his damp face. Five hours have passed since Rodney and Ronon left him; he must have dozed off at some point.

The colonel shivers, pulls the blankets up about him tighter, and swallows, looking about the room. When they left, Amerie had been sitting in the chair, stitching away at some mending as she babysat the colonel. Sheppard had sullenly sat and working on the Walther like a child having a petty sulk. Yet, now that it is about dinner time for their shift, Amerie is gone, having left her pile of mending folded neatly upon the chair.

Sheppard leans forward, his leg spasming in agony and screaming in protest. He instinctively clutches his hip, bearing down on the muscles and massaging the knots out. As he works out the cramping pain, his fingertips brush where his filthy and stinking BDUs have been slit up the seam, lilting at the ragged edge of his bandages. The frayed threads tempt him mercilessly.

Sheppard licks his lips before hesitantly unwrapping the wound, sucking a breath through his teeth upon seeing the ugly, stitched wounds beneath. He has not seen the injury for some time, sufficing with the quick reports from Rodney and Ronon over its condition. Seeing it, however, is an entirely different affair than hearing about it. The stitches are ghastly. A flushed area rings the holes, stretching beyond a black ring that Rodney has drain. Faint red streaks reach beyond that still. Sheppard frowns, prodding the punctures and watching as pus ebbs from the holes, grimly fascinated by the liquid seeping onto his skin.

_"That. Is. Just. Nasty. Probably infected. Gross."_

Sheppard sighs at the thought and leans back once more.

xxxx

Ronon follows just behind Rodney back up the mountain, trailed by the _skrae_, Kylie, their mounts struggling to get solid footing in the now boggy trails. Ronon sees clearly now why the people of Foothold do not traverse the mountainside after a snow. Getting back up these narrow and winding trails must be impossible with a heavier layer of snow, the clinging mud beneath, and the loose shale all threatening to bring the massive horses down to the ground. Even now with a light blanketing, the uphill climb demands their full effort and attention to every inane detail of the slope to avoid skidding back downhill.

It is only when they reach the narrow road that McKay feels at the bit and draws his horse up, bowing his head and speaking solemnly without even looking over his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"Hrm?"

McKay's fists curl tightly about the leather reins; he sighs and looks down. "About.... that." He shakes his head. "I know it's our ticket off this rock, but I just....." McKay swallows the thick, choking lump in his throat. "There's really no telling if anyone else is alive out there. Maybe on the West Coast or in other countries. Maybe Canada." Ronon could never miss the faint crack to Rodney's voice at that, but the physicist quickly settles, stating firmly, "I will _not _make Earth into a repeat of Doranda."

Ronon nods at the pain so very evident in the physicist's tone. "I figured."

"Just...." McKay looks back now, his eyes glossy and pleading as he meets Ronon's composed visage. "Please, just don't tell Sheppard and the others. I'll figure something else out. Just don't tell them."

The Satedan remains as inscrutable as the _skrae _lingering behind him even as the words slip across his tongue. "I won't."

xxxx

Two more days pass, and the winter skies threaten snow once more.

Sheppard sleeps more and more now, drifting through an irritatingly constant lethargy sapping his strength to nothingness. Even if the colonel had the energy in him, his traitorous hands quake too much now, too unsteady for any fine or detailed work of disassembling firearms and performing any precision repairs. Shivers play his body with frigid chills, and his muscles quiver despite the warm, downy blankets and quilts generously piled atop him.

Sheppard's leg hurts with every beat of his heart and each tortuous tremble of his fevered body, aching purely. Only Ronon and Rodney dare tend to the injuries, but they do not bother now to completely wrap bandages about it. Wrapping only seems to cause Sheppard more pain no matter how carefully they manipulate the limb, and, so, they keep it covered with clean gauze pads now. A series of black lines ring the wounds upon his calf, scrawled each and every morning and evening the physicist's hand, swelling outward from the initial trauma. Sheppard tries to pay no heed to the black circles and what import they hold.

The people of Foothold argue now, in sullen and petty squabbles quickly stifled in Ronon's presence. They dart glances in his direction as he passes, but do not ask, do not inquire of Sheppard, as though he is dead already. Where meals were once accompanied by laughter and shared stories, there is only a tense silence broken only by soft and tentative murmurs. He asks McKay in a whisper, but the physicist merely shrugs it off. Ronon can sense his unease. Tension builds and spreads through the community like a contagion, rippling outward from the infirmary and Sheppard.

The _skrae _must feel it as well. Kylie lingers now, just beyond the door to the makeshift infirmary. When the door is open, Sheppard sees her, watching and waiting. He feels her emerald eyes upon him.

The people of Foothold do not seem to appreciate the presence of the _skrae_, or so Ronon thinks. They stare bitterly at Kylie whenever she passes, whispering darkly in her presence. It is on the second morning, when the _skrae _stands in line for breakfast, that Jonas sends her right to the back with a glare and scathingly profane order. The _skrae _silently slips away and waits her turn once more, only to be served up the very last bit of oatmeal scraped from the bottom of the pot, barely enough to be really filling. She slinks away to the far side of the node and eats without comment, without reaction, in a restraint the Ronon hardly thinks he could muster himself.

On the third day, Ronon resolves to drain the wounds. The Satedan shoulders Sheppard's weight down to the side chamber where the people of the mine bathe. Sheppard grunts and groans at the effort, but says nothing. Once there, Ronon settles John down on a crate and eases the leg into a tall bucket filled with boiled water mixed with salt to soak. Sheppard stares down at the raw, ugly wounds and the faint, dusky border of grey tint now ranging the punctures. After a time, the Satedan draws Sheppard's leg forth from the water and slices open the sutures, regardless of whatever damage it might cause to reopen the wounds. Then, Ronon cleans the injuries and probes at them, pressing for pockets of pus and infection, trying very hard not to allow Sheppard's stifled moans bother him as he forces up the sickly fluids. When he is finished, the colonel hardly has the strength left to stay upright, and, so, the runner scoops him up in his muscular arms, cradling him to the makeshift infirmary before returning to the main node.

Ronon spies McKay amid a small cluster of survivors huddled in a corner, engaged in a heated but hushed argument; he approaches just in time to hear Amerie whisper in concern, "He isn't getting any better."

Ronon furrows his brow, pricking his ears curiously to the conversation without approaching now as McKay snaps and argues testily, "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

"You're a doctor. Hell, you're the _answers_ man," the resident pastor of sorts, Eric, pipes up with a sarcastic bite.

The Satedan subtly averts his gaze and shifts course away from them to the other side of the cavernous node. He surreptitiously strips his stunner and checks the hair trigger and the fittings in a guarded way, setting the parts down on a weathered wooden crate turned into a suitable work table. The people of Foothold have grown accustomed to his almost paranoid care of his personal weapon, and they do not seem to notice his quiet presence as he tends to the stunner.

McKay sighs heavily, shaking his head and rubbing his temples. "Yes, but not a medical doctor. I can't just whip up some miracle cure."

_"Sheppard_," the Satedan quickly realizes.

The elder woman places a gentle hand upon McKay's shoulder, her voice dropping low in a bittersweet commiseration. "He's suffering."

The physicist shrugs the hand off. "You think I haven't noticed? Sheppard's good at hiding it, but I've known him a lot longer than you have."

"He's barely contributing," another man that Ronon has come to know as Sulley points out, folding his arms across his chest.

Eric frowns. "Food's short enough as is."

"Well, we'll just have to hunt more," Rodney argues back. "Compensate for them."

Sulley shakes his head gravely. "Hunting's been hard. Pickings are getting a little slim with winter coming in."

Ronon bristles at the comment, and Rodney must finally spot him lurking in the background of the tunnels. "Just... just give him some time."

"Whatever. He's _your _cause," Eric snaps, his eyes sharp and hinting.

McKay scowls, his face creased with fine lines as the tiny group disperses back to their tasks before turning to Ronon. He does not fumble or even attempt to conceal the truth. Instead, the physicist merely heaves himself to the ground to sit beside the Satedan with a heavy exhalation that seems taxing. Ronon says nothing but sets his stunner down. It was in need of no attention, really, and, so, he waits patiently for McKay to speak.

When he does, it is at first with a reluctant sigh. "I take it you heard all that?" Ronon dips his head slightly in acknowledgment, and Rodney nods. "Yeah.... sorry. People are just on edge right now."

"What's Sheppard got to do with it?" the words rumble deeply in Ronon's throat.

"People need hope these days. They haven't had any in a while. The stories about you guys and _Atlantis _gave them hope when there wasn't any to go around. I didn't think it would be a big deal. And, then, you two show up out of the blue, and it's like the two of you are Jesus H. Christ come back to save us all." The physicist shrugs, staring intently at his feet as though the answer lay in them. "Morale's bad enough as is without Sheppard hurt like he is. People are feeling like either he's got to get better or...."

Ronon cocks his eyebrow as the physicist trails off. "Or?"

"Or he should just die and get it over with."

With that, Rodney stalks off.

xxxx

Two days later, the ghost of dusky grey about Sheppard's wounds is more apparent, trekking its own, steady and relentless course behind the swath of scarlet. The colonel trembles and quivers with his chills now, clenching his teeth together to keep from moaning aloud as the constant motion stirs perpetual agony in the limb. He grips at the blankets, twisting them in his balled fists, trying to ride out the pain with little to no success.

He opens his eyes at the sound of soft murmuring to his side to see the male _skrae_, Willem, seated before McKay, holding out his pale, bony hand as the physicist tends to the delicate process of dabbing alcohol upon it as Kylie looks on with those penetrating, green eyes of hers. The knuckles of Willem's right hand are all bloodied and split open, clearly from a fight or a brawl of some kind, likely with Todd. A tug of worry nigs at the back of his mind, and Sheppard flushes at the thought of feeling any sort of concern or sentiment for the Wraith other than hatred and disgust, quickly banishing the feeble notion.

"You should stay here a couple of days. We're due for snow. Lots of it," Rodney informs the pair of _skrae _sitting so obediently and placidly.

Sheppard tries to push himself up and succeeds only in flapping back and onto the blankets. McKay notices and brings him a cup of wonderful, delightful, cool water, holding it up to the colonel's lips for him. He hasn't the strength now to do much other than shiver and sleep fitful, fevered, and nightmarish dreams of the Wraith, of Sumner, of Afghanistan, and of a world that no longer exists save in faded memory alone. He drifts once more, closing his eyes what feels like just a moment, only to open them and find both Rodney and Willem gone, leaving Kylie sitting back and watching in silence. When he awakes again, she is gone, and replaced by Ronon. This goes on for some time, this drifting.

When he awakens again, there are more people speaking this time about him. Amerie. Eric. Jonas. Sulley. Ronon. And Rodney, staring at a ghastly grey patch spreading beneath Sheppard's skin upon his calf. The two _skrae _sit in silent curiosity on the far side of the room as the hushed yet heated argument ensues.

"... got to do it," Amerie insists in a whisper.

Ronon hisses brusquely and defensively, folding his arms across his puffed chest as he says, "He'll never let you."

"He has no choice," Eric cuts in, his eyes feral and narrowed in annoyance. "The leg's infected. Badly. We don't have the antibiotics we need to treat it."

Amerie's lips thin upon her drawn face. "The leg has got to go. It's the only way."

John almost jerks off the bed with a sudden, rushing and deafening fear. Take his leg? If they take his leg, if they cripple him so, there is no chance he can survive this world overrun with the Wraith. It sounds so simple, so cut and dry, but it is far from it. Even the mere suggestion of it sends Sheppard's mind tumbling over its self and all the many things he would miss terribly. No more jogging with Ronon in the morning, running to the ends of _Atlantis _to catch the dawn. No more sparring with Teyla, circling her in a wild, instinctive yet calculated dance. No more missions. No more flying. None of it. Everything taken from him. A sob almost wrenches itself from Sheppard's chest at the thought, and he trembles harder, but not from the fevered chills.

The others must hear this and sense his awareness, for all eyes dart to Sheppard. In Ronon, the colonel spies only a deep resolve and determination, the same stubborn tenacity that kept the Satedan alive all those years on the run. In Amerie, there lies only a soft grief, as though she mourns his future loss for him. Rodney's brow gathers as his eyes glisten oddly. In Eric, Jonas, and Sulley, however, Sheppard finds only a cold distance, as though they are already separating themselves from him should he perish. In the _skrae_, he sees almost nothing, save the faintest glimmer of what might be remorse to Kylie's emerald eyes.

"Please," Sheppard rasps. "Please, don't take my leg." The colonel swallows convulsively before forcing the words from his mouth. "Just wait. Just a few more days. It'll be okay."

Ronon settles close to him and sets a hand upon Sheppard's damp shoulder, the bedding dipping beneath the runner's heft as he sternly and simply states, "Your leg isn't going anywhere. You'll be fine."

Sheppard nods, but Eric clamps a hand down on Ronon's shoulder. "Don't be a tool and torture him with false hope." The gruff man leans forward and points to the bandages. "Sheppard, that leg's rotting." Eric pauses for a moment, letting the words sink in before intoning softly, "If it doesn't go, the infection's going to kill you."

"Nah." He cracks a lopsided near-delirious grin in his hysteria, dizzy from the fever and the shock of what these people are planning so insidiously around him even if it is with the best of intentions. "Just need a big bandaid, a lollipop and a kiss on the cheek from mom and I'll be back in action in no time."

"It doesn't work that way, and you know it," Eric counters matter-of-factly.

The colonel shakes his head fiercely in a frantic desperation. "No. Don't." He points an angry finger in Eric's face. "Don't you dare take my leg."

"Sheppard-"

However, to his surprise, Rodney speaks up, ending the conversation curtly. "Get some rest. We'll talk later."

Sheppard gives a low nod, exhausted and worn by the short exchange already. McKay smiles broadly at the colonel, but the ill man is already slipping away once more by the time they file out of the makeshift infirmary. Rodney eases the door shut before turning and finding Ronon standing there, glaring furiously as the others walk away. Before Ronon can even open his mouth to utter a single syllable, the physicist motions with a flick of his fingers to follow him. McKay turns away from the others, leading Ronon in the path of the two _skrae_. He catches up to Willem and catches the young man by the wrist as Kylie walks on towards the lower parts of the mine. He immediately presses a finger to his mouth, gesturing to Willem for a silence in what seems an appallingly redundant gesture when directed to one of the _skrae_. William stares intently but emotionlessly as always.

McKay speaks swiftly. "Willem, take Ronon down into Tannersville as fast as you can."

"What?" the Satedan barks.

"It's a two day ride, but there's a hospital down there. You might be able to find antibiotics or something," the physicist explains without delay. "But you'll need a guide, especially if you want to make it there before the snow hits." McKay points to the waiting _skrae_. "Willem will lead you there."

Ronon nods numbly before breathing, "Alright."

"Look for anything that says antibiotics on it, or anything ending in '-illin.'"

The Satedan readies in a hurry, hardly consciously registering his actions as he packs up a few supplies and bundles up in a few heavy layers graciously provided by McKay. He follows the _skrae_, back to the top of the tunnels, before stopping in with Sheppard once more. At first, Ronon thinks Sheppard slumbers still, but a glint betrays the thin slits of the colonel's eyes. The Satedan lowers himself, kneeling at Sheppard's side and swiping a stray lock of hair from where it is plasters with sweat to the pale skin of John's forehead.

"Hey." The Satedan smiles warmly, stroking Sheppard's forehead and announcing in uncharacteristic apprehension, "I'm going to get you some medicine, alright?"

The corners of Sheppard's lips curl. "Alright."

"So you hang in, okay?" the runner asks it but leaves little room for refusal granted the curt yet somehow caring nature of his words as he rises once more.

Sheppard nods and meets his steady gaze, quipping ominously, "Don't be gone long."

Ronon's heart contracts at the statement, and he promises, "I won't."

"I'll hold you to it," the colonel attempts to tease despite the clear agony he is in.

"I know."

Ronon leaves Sheppard then, striding to the top of the mines in a hurry. Outside, the _skrae _sits at the ready, cloaked in the elaborately woven draperies of his ghillie suit and astride one of the hulking horses in the frost-kissed twilight air. A second, dark chocolate colored horse stands at his side, saddled and prepared for Ronon, held by McKay. The physicist sheepishly hands the reins to the Satedan before stepping back, allowing the runner to spring into the stocky saddle with little effort.

"Take care of him, Willem," McKay orders stiffly, stroking down the thick neck of Ronon's mount and staring at the _skrae _as Willem dips his head ever so slightly. Then, the physicist lifts his gaze to the Satedan. "Be careful."

Ronon gathers the reins and stares down at McKay, his gaze full of fury. "Wait until we get back."

McKay nods. "Of course. Now get going if you're going to beat the weather."

The two riders turn away from Foothold as darkness settles over the mountains with a lonely, howling wind, swallowing them whole as they amble down the mountain road. The icy blast cuts through even the warmest of winter coats. Clouds churn overhead in slow, languid turns, promising heavy weather, heavily laden with a deep snow. Rodney shivers, sighs, and stuffs his hands into his pockets; it will be full dark soon, lock-up time.

He chances one last glance to the heavens before heading in and spies a swarm of darts. The small cluster streaks through the sky, dusting the clouds with white, twinkling ion trails of dazzling light, flashing like a meteor shower before ascending over the cloud cover. The Wraith rarely stray this far into the mountains unless sweeping for their human prey, but they continue overhead without diversion, likely on a routine culling run towards Philadelphia or Pittsburgh. McKay gives a shudder, despite the fact that the squadron is obviously completely unaware of the hidden encampment beneath them, burrowing into the rock and nestled in the heart of the mountain. Rodney McKay does not believe in omens, but, if he did, the man would surely find that to be a bad one.

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes : **My eye has something in it that is killing me, so you will have to wait until tomorrow or later for the next chappie. Sorry.


	9. Desperate Measures

**CALIBER - Desperate Measures**

When Sheppard cracks his eyes open once more, McKay is with him, muttering profanities softly to himself as he tends to the wound. He grimaces, his features twisting with every small motion as he peels the gauze away. A rotten stench fills Sheppard's nostrils, threatening to turn his stomach and, judging from the green pallor to McKay's face, the physicist's as well. The colonel darts his gaze downward and spies an expanded field of gray tainted flesh, immediately recoiling and turning his gaze away.

Amerie speaks softly, to softly for the colonel to understand, jerking Sheppard's attention to her as she approaches behind Rodney, placing a gentle but gnarled hand upon the physicist's shoulder. Her features seemed pained and worried, her eyes clouded as they flicker over their patient. The lines and wrinkles about the woman's face appear deeper somehow in a cruel play of the light.

McKay's features scrunch into a tight frown. "Not yet."

Amerie nods and recedes once more.

McKay glances up and Sheppard and spies those hazel eyes staring back at him intently, despite the febrile glint to them. "Hey. How you hanging in?"

"M'fine."

Rodney nods awkwardly before turning his attention to the leg once more and heaving, "Leg's getting worse."

The colonel scowls. "No shit, Sherlock." He spots a strange mist to Rodney's eye and points accusingly. "You. Are. Not. Taking. It."

McKay shrugs and replaces a gauze pad. "I just wish you'd consider the options." He checks to the other side, breathing, "How bad is it?"

"It's fine," Sheppard grunts roughly.

The physicist sees right through the lie to the very core of Sheppard's misery. McKay's pity is too much for Sheppard, too painfully raw and honest, shrieked in every feature, and, so, the colonel looks away. He finds the _skrae_, Kylie, sitting watching with her empty emerald eyes from the end of the bunk. The colonel drifts in her unfeeling stare, losing himself in the vast and untamed sea of green abandon lurking behind her steady gaze as she just stares.

"It's almost Christmas, did you know?" Rodney ventures an attempt at striking up distracting conversation before nervously backpedaling once more with a frown. "Well, by our count."

The colonel furrows his brow in confusion at the statement and the unimaginable cruelty to the thought of the approaching holidays; McKay sees this and flusters at his own stupidity, "I'm sorry. I just..... You know I'm not really good at this bedside manners thing."

The physicist turns his head away, displaying the vivid array of webbed scar tissue on the side of his face. The colonel studies them, the pattern and flow, sweeping along the puckered lines and about the almost smooth curls. Sheppard recalls an old slogan bandied about during training. "Scars are tattoos with better stories." The colonel stares, reading into this mutilation, allowing the scars to paint a picture for him, to sooth him and wrap him in a wonderfully drugging sense of security, no matter how false he knows it to be. No matter how bad his leg is, McKay has been _butchered_. Nothing can be as terrible or as awful as that, and, so Sheppard bites back any scathing remark or snappy comment he might have otherwise blurted out rashly.

McKay notes his attention, raising a curious eyebrow. "What?"

"How'd y'get those scars?" Sheppard slurs, exhausted already from his brief foray into the world of consciousness, but he forces himself to waggle a finger in the direction of McKay's face.

The physicist does not start, nor jerk, nor otherwise jump. He does not even swallow. Sheppard had expected otherwise and finds himself surprised by the stark _lack _of reaction to the stranger masquerading as his friend. Instead of any sort of elaborate gesture, Rodney merely looks down, composing himself for a moment. His hand reaches to tenderly stroke one of the lower scars, just above his angled jaw line as though lost in a private reverie of sorts.

When McKay does speak, it is with a collected and serious tone. "Rainbow Bridge."

"Hrm?"

"It was right after New York." The physicist looks to Sheppard, his face stoic and set. "I was with Jeannie when the Wraith came. They hit the major cities first. New York. Los Angeles. London. Tokyo. Taipei. It was like something from H.G. Wells or _Independence Day_. I had to get back to the SGC, help anyway I could to turn the Wraith away, but I couldn't get a flight into America. No planes with all that air traffic, y'know?" McKay trails off as the colonel nods for him to go on. "I drove as far as I could until I got to Niagara. Figured I could hop across Rainbow Bridge and into America. Make my way to Colorado from there. I didn't count on there already being millions of American refugees running for Canada."

McKay pauses once more, glancing to Kylie. The _skrae _sits without moving, without even the slightest of shifts to her otherwise pristinely void expression. Yet Kylie listens. Sheppard knows this by the tiny incline to her head, by the subtle shift of focus to her eyes. Kylie listens and studies without showing it outwardly. Sheppard wonders what the _skrae _thinks of this tale, if it stirs her as much as McKay to think of the first incursion of the Wraith.

The physicist shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck and massaging the clear tension in the muscles. "They thought they'd be safe in Canada. Miles upon miles of trees and wilderness and nothing. Stupid Americans. You guys all think Canada's nothing but one, big maple forest."

"Can y'blame us?" Sheppard asks softly, a quirky mocking to his voice when he adds, "It _is_ on the damned flag."

"Yeah, yeah," McKay grumbles. "I didn't count on the bridge being a choke point. All these people swarming over the bridge. You couldn't even get a car across. I had to ditch mine and walk through Niagara to even _get _to Rainbow Bridge. I figured the Americans would do the same thing most _sane _Canadians did." The physicist waves his hands with an almost dispersing gesture. "Scatter to the forests in your own country and hope for this whole thing to blow over."

When McKay does not elaborate further, Sheppard presses, inquiring hesitantly, "What happen'd, Rodney?"

"_They_ came, Sheppard. The Wraith. And they did what they do best. They culled." The physicist trembles, but not from the cold or any illness; he shakes his head fervently and almost disbelievingly at his own tale as he shouts, "Like a big buffet!" McKay takes a deep breath, stilling himself and forcing himself to calm. "They culled, Sheppard." He balls his fists in seething rage. "Every. Last. Person. They took them. All of them."

Sheppard blinks in shock at this wild and venting fury in McKay. The physicist had always been prone to outbursts of anger and aggression, but never anything as pure and untamed as this. It frightens Sheppard, rocking him to the core. Then, just as sudden as the anger manifested, it dispels.

"And the scars?" he whispers.

Rodney glances once more to Kylie and fingers the scars at his cheek, swallowing hard before spitting venomously, "They gave me these scars, Sheppard."

"But why?"

The physicist surges to his feet and glares at Sheppard, but the colonel has nothing he can say or ask in his shock, merely a fevered haze and a countless bevy of questions tumbling over his mind and tripping over the tip of his tongue, catching there. McKay dips his head with an annoyed jerk before striding out in a huff, slamming the door behind him.

The _skrae_, however, remains.

xxxx

The wind screams through the tightly clustered group of tents, huddled together in a grove of thick, ancient and creaking trees and nestled amid bulky all-terrain vehicles for protection from the coming storm. They vary in size, color, shape and construction, but all have been selected for their durability in extreme conditions such as this. The tents and staked down tarps ripple and quiver, flapping in the heavy gusts as though they just blow away at any moment, their brief and frighteningly fragile existence scoured clean from the mountains. Yet, they stubbornly persist.

Zeke Thomas stalks through the clump of tents, hunched over to keep out of the wind and navigating by the mellow glow of the assorted lanterns and lamps in each tent. He counts each little shelter and checks every tent stake to ensure that no detail has been missed. Zeke tests the tethers to the tarps at the edge of camp as well. His shift on sentry detail ended an hour ago, but Zeke can afford this extra round. These mountain people know they have survived by perseverance and staunch vigilance alone, and everything has been securely staked down and well weighted against the gathering storm.

The young man approaches one of the small tents, a shabby, tan, canvas affair, a basic pop-tent, really. The material wavers in the wind with heavy whumps under the stronger gales. It is simpler than the other tents of their synthetic material in matching color schemes lovingly selected by some distant and very likely long dead designer to effortlessly mesh with the seasonal lines for Target, WalMart, and Eastern Mountain Sport. This one, however, is unassuming compared to the others, aged and well-loved through the years. It has seen many more miles and many more mountain storms, passed down through three generations of sport hunters. This is Klutch's tent.

Zeke unties the flaps, his fingers raw and tight from the cold and lifts the flap. The tent is empty, the lamp cool to the touch. A sea of maps and lists lies spread across the bedroll, but even the blanketing holds no warmth. Zeke shakes his head. Klutch has not slept yet since her shift ended a few hours ago.

He reties her tent flaps against the bitter winds and turns back to camp proper. Unlike Foothold, cloistered away in their little cave and shunning any vehicle which might draw undue attention or waste precious gas, Klutch's tribe has embraced the mobility they offer and gathered close what few functioning vehicles remain that can scale the rough mountain trails. They stand strategically scattered through the encampment as wind breaks against the coming storm. They have five trucks to their hold and a handful of motorcycles, mostly stolen. Zeke himself illegally procured a clunker of a hunter green Jeep Cherokee whose only saving graces are a powerful wench and secure trailer hitch.

Many of Klutch's people sleep in the few trucks they have that offer any real protection against the bracing cold, but never her. Every encampment the set, she pitches her tent and sleeps just at the outskirts, just beyond the others, allowing her truck for some other soul seeking refuge from the elements. Yet, when Zeke reaches the other side of the camp and the battered cerulean blue and black Ford Bronco and sees the steam accumulated upon the windows, he knows Klutch is in there.

He sighs and opens the front passenger door, climbing in and shutting it behind him. She lies across the back seat under a flannel blanket, her feet propped up on the door panel. Her eyes are closed, but Zeke knows she is still awake, still thinking and still pondering. Her massive headphones cover her ears as she listens into the dead air, hoping to either catch the signal once more or pick up on human activity aside from those bastards snuggled up in the mines. Klutch knows she should not waste the auxiliary battery power by listening in more than necessary, but she does regardless, single-minded in her quest.

Zeke stretches out and yawns, curling his toes as he does; then, he turns to his companion and pokes her leg, asking, "So, who are you today?"

Klutch sits up, pulling the headphones from her ears and thinks for a moment before smiling and replying, "Theresa Jennifer."

"Good one."

Klutch beams, adopting the name instantly. "Thank you." She sighs, clicking off her radio. "We're going to need to move again."

"Another signal?" Zeke inquires, arching an eyebrow.

She shakes her head, tousling her greasy, blonde locks. "No. I just don't think we're safe in Eastern Pennsylvania anymore." Klutch unfolds a map, spreading it for Zeke and pointing out all the black 'x's marking various fallen enclaves. "It's always the same. Transmission. Fall. Transmission. Fall. McCormick, Wolf Lodge, Gap, Spruce Run, High Point, Ramapo, Bethel, Pocono." Her finger stabs at the black marks upon the map. "I think it's just down to us and Foothold anymore, and these transmissions keep getting more and more frequent." Klutch pauses, collecting herself. "McKay and his idiots might think it's a good idea to just hide in a hole, but we can't keep shuffling around the mountains like the Wraith aren't going to come for us one of these days." She rubs her temples, letting out another pregnant breath. "We need to get out of the state, I think."

"Well, I'm sold," Zeke replies almost sadly. "Where to, fearless leader?"

Klutch gives an exasperated chuckle, running her fingers through dirty hair that once shown like gold in the sun. "That's the question, isn't it?" She chortles mirthlessly at her own poor tasted humor. "Anywhere but here."

"How soon?" the man presses.

Klutch lifts her gaze, rubbing a smudgy window in the fogged windows to peer outside."Storm's going to hit soon. After that, as soon as the roads are passable."

Zeke gives a slow, considering nod and questions flatly, "And Foothold?"

"If they find out we're going to just sneak off the mountain, there's no telling what kinds of stupid shit they'll do. And after what they did...." She chews on her bottom lip, an oddly petulant and childish quirk she has maintained for all these years despite the battle hardened warrior this third generation hunter has become. Klutch swears. "Fuck 'em."

xxxx

The storm strikes early in the morning with a howling, lamenting wind, well before dawn in a preternatural darkness that seems endless. A sea of white, cottony snowflakes billows up and swirls about them through the forests, carried by chilling, arctic blasts. The wind cuts like a knife with a bitter, driving cold that steals Ronon's breath away as they ride through the empty mountains, threading between the trees and slipping down the mount to wherever this Tannersville is. The runner squints eyes dusted with snow to keep the pelting ice out. His skin peppers with goosebumps, and the Satedan draws his think jacket about him tighter to hold the meager warmth imparted by his own body heat.

The horse beneath him catches its toe upon some unseen hazard, perhaps slipping on a loose rock hidden beneath the snow. Ice packed in the hooves and about the shoe provides little traction, and the horse sinks for a horrifying moment before scrambling to regain its balance and steadily walking on once more. The _skrae _hardly notices the commotion, but Ronon's hand slips to the beast's withers for a reassuring and rewardingly pat. The creature is trying its beast to labor on, throwing its great, lumbering head down and striding forward against the wind.

They have ridden hard for some hours now, into the wilds of America, the _skrae _at the lead, yet Ronon's mind is not there in this barren, icy forest, even as the harsh, blinding blizzard gales demand otherwise. Ronon's thoughts focus upon Sheppard alone, back at Foothold. He has seen the wound upon the colonel's leg, tracked the same progression of infection as McKay. There is no saving the limb without some course of serious medication, and the runner knows this. Tannersville is Sheppard's only fragile hope now. That thought alone heats Ronon's blood, fuels every urging squeeze his legs about the horse's wide girth, drives him through the mountains, even if it means following this _skrae_ and even if it means freezing to death in this blizzard.

The runner will do this small thing, for it is the only thing he _can _do for Sheppard.

Dawn breaks on the horizon, but no sun rises in the sky. It is hidden it a haze of white-out, casting only a dim light to navigate by. Ronon silently prays that the _skrae_ knows the way, but Willem says nothing.

They soldier on through the storm.

xxxx

When Sheppard awakens next, it is in the dark with a horrific and staunch _lack _of sensation in his lower left leg. A dark fear clamps down upon him, his heart contracting tightly in his chest, even as his hand reaches down through the blankets to his knee and lower. His eyes prickle with unshed tears. His fingers tremble, hovering for a moment before he squeezes down sharply and is rewarded with searing hot pain shooting through his body and burning down his nerve endings like wildfire. The colonel flops back, riding through the pain until it subsides back to a dull ache, savoring it and the reassurance it brings that his sore leg is not dead, yet.

He cannot hold back the sob of relief now as tears stream down his cheeks. "Just, get better already." John babbles the words to himself in desperation, ordering himself and pleading with his body. "Get better."

He shudders convulsively, his mind cascading over the grim possibilities and all the things his leg represents that he cannot live without as sweat trickles from his brow. But the infection has spread so very far now, doing irreparable damage to him. Even if he does survive with his leg, Sheppard knows that he'll likely be crippled for life now.

"Please...." Sheppard begs. "Please, please, please get better."

He is not alone. With a quick strike, a lantern flares to life, blinding him momentarily. Sheppard starts to a shadow hovering over him. He blinks bleary eyes to clear his vision, and the vaguely creamy shape takes a human form with pointed, aquiline features. He smirks at the dark, shortly cropped hair, shimmering in the firelight and the rosy lips that express nothing. A hand strokes his fevered cheek tenderly with a cool brush upon his too-warm skin.

"Hey... Kylie," he says, forcing his throat to work.

She presses a damp cloth to his forehead and cheeks, bathing the sweat from his brow before setting the thing aside and returning her attention to him. There is an eerie and lingering moment where those sharp, kittenish eyes gaze at him intently, as though the _skrae_ can see right through his outer walls right down to his very soul. John finds himself staring back desperately, scrambling to understand. She and Willem are such unusual creatures, silent, still and waiting, as calm and cool as the Wraith themselves. She and her companion, Willem, bear the mannerisms of the Wraith, the grace and attitude that do not seem fitting upon people so young. He wonders what those emerald eyes of hers has seen in the wake of the incursion and her time on the run. He wonders what she sees in him, the broken, battered once great military commander of Rodney's grandiose, utterly exaggerated and fanciful tales of _Atlantis_.

Kylie opens her mouth for a moment, as if to say something before stilling and turning her gaze away. Sheppard frowns curiously. The girl swallows and looks down, in an almost unbecoming sort of sheepishness. Finally, the huntress returns her unsettling and piercing eyes to Sheppard.

When she opens her mouth again in a small 'o,' a sweet, sensual sound emanates from deep within her chest as she sings in a rich, sumptuous tone. _"I'll be home for Christmas. You can plan on me." _Her hands reach out to brush his cheeks, her cool touch welcome as she sings softly. _"Please have snow and mistletoe and presents on the tree."_

There is something painfully beautiful about her song. An intense yearning fills every note flowing from her pink lips and into Sheppard's ears, a sorrow that rings raw upon every tiny nuance of her song. She has a voice that, despite her rugged, harsh exterior, speaks of nothing but a tender heart, long broken and damaged. A scarred soul hides behind the outer mask of cool composure and icy confidence, one which Kylie has deigned to reveal to Sheppard in this rare of moments.

_"Christmas Eve will find me where the lovelight gleams." _Kylie's hand snakes out, running down the side of Sheppard's cheek once more in a tender sort of gesture, and he strains for more. _"I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams."_

As she lingers upon the last note, something melts inside Sheppard as his leg clenches with a roving agony through the infected, rotting flesh that is matched only by the hollow pit in his heart. He wants to be home for Christmas, more than anything in this or any other world. Oh, God, how he craves it, to be safe and sound on Atlantis, warm and comfortable. Despite his stringent nature as a by the books rules-nazi, even Woosley has a soft spot for the winter holidays, giving in to the indulgences of soldier and scientist alike to make the long stretch without Earth contact bearable - complete with a pine tree from the mainland in the mess hall. He yearns for Keller's gentle ministrations for his battered, inflamed wound, for Teyla's homemade sweets that resembled something like spun sugar, and for Ronon's awkward and laughable uncertainty when children from the mainland came with their families to visit for a holiday feast. Sheppard's eyes blur and tear as he thinks about it, knowing that, between a nonfunctioning gate and the sorry condition of his leg, it is exceedingly unlikely that the colonel will ever see one of those haphazard holidays again. John rationalizes reproachfully that these are mentally the musings of a fever addled mind and that the tears are merely reflexive and not emotional.

When she finishes, those emerald green eyes of hers glisten. Kylie says not another word as the girl scrubs her face with the back of her wrist. Even in his daze, Sheppard knows this is the closest Kylie has come to speaking with anyone since the Wraith came, and she did it for him and him alone, as though in payment for her mistake, her sundry crimes against him. It is her gift to him, the only thing the girl has to offer in this adulterated, Wraith-infested world that was once a planet thriving and teeming with life. It is the only thing she has to offer in asking for forgiveness for what she did to him in her haste.

"Beau....tiful...." Sheppard rasps.

She dips her head in a tiny gesture of respect before placing a chaste kiss upon his burning forehead and retreating from the infirmary in her seemingly customary silence. Sheppard, somehow, distantly knows he may never hear that painfully exquisite voice again, and it breaks his own heart in return.

xxxx

A day into the unrelenting snow, and the horse finally does collapse beneath Ronon with a harrowing tumble, sending up a puff of white flakes instantly lost in the swirling chaos of the raging storm, sending Ronon falling with a heavy thud into the thick snow. The horse does not scream, does not whinny. It just crumples beneath the Satedan in a sad, pathetic, and tangled heap before heaving an exhausted breath. Ronon jerks at the reins, struggling to haul the beast of burden back to its feet, but the horse merely gives another heavy breath, rolling those great, brown eyes at the Satedan plaintively. It can go no further, even if Ronon drags it by the bit through the heavy snow fall.

"HEY!" Ronon cries out after the shadowy silhouette of the _skrae _disappearing into the white out. "WAIT!"

Yet his voice is swallowed up by the raging torment about them. Ronon grits his teeth, staggering to his feet against a stiff wind that threatens to force him down once more, slogging through knee deep powder now after the _skrae_, Willem. He trips and narrowly averts landing face first in a snow so cold that it burns to the touch. The Satedan scrambles through the snowfall, making small, ambling jumps to catch up faster with the _skrae _as Willem continues to guide his trudging mount through the thick accumulation.

"HEY!" Ronon barks out loudly, his voice ripped away by the winds.

When the _skrae _does not seem to notice, his blue eyes still staring forward into the choking, blinding snowfall, Ronon's hand shoots out of its own accord. His fingers find the thin lengths of worn leather reins, wrapping about them and pulling tautly. The horse balks, snapping its teeth and wheeling about the Satedan in a circle. The _skrae _glowers down at him bitterly from the saddle, but Ronon cares not. He has Willem's undivided attention.

"WE'VE GOT TO STOP!"

The _skrae _tilts his well wrapped head, shrouded in the tattered, frayed bits of ghillie suit that curl and flitter in the winds. Yet Willem says nothing, just gazing down intently at the man beneath him.

Ronon scowls, his lip curling like a wolf bearing its fangs. "WE HAVE TO FIND SHELTER!"

Willem dismissively tugs at the reins, wordlessly jerking the leather thong from the Satedan's grasp with ease. Ronon's brow knits, but the _skrae _merely shifts the reins in his hands and squeezes his legs, turning the horse back on the same direction and slogging through the snow once more into the maelstrom. The Satedan incredulously blinks the icy crust from his eyes as the snow threatens to engulf the _skrae _and his mount once more before charging into action. The runner surges through the snow, leaping with a wild ferocity that Ronon has often fancied as long dead from his days on the run. Yet, here and now in these frozen mountains, his blood boils over. He claws at the _skrae, _catching Willem by the various bits of camouflaging fabric to the ghillie suit and pulling the rider to the ground.

They roll about in the frozen cushion of fresh powder for a moment, Ronon striking a few gloriously connective and driving punches and feeling nothing but a feral and sweet satisfaction at the grunts the blows draw from the _skrae. _Willem, however, uses the Satedan's untamed and poorly directed vent of fury to his advantage. He moves cautiously, rolling with the runner upon the ground and allowing Ronon to vent himself until much of his fury is spent as he tires from the exhaustive hike and the sudden outburst. Only then does he move, slamming into Ronon hard and knocking him back, into the downy snow, one finely honed kukri to the Satedan's throat and the other pointed out and to his side.

"GET OFF OF ME!" Ronon bellows, still raging beneath the _skrae_.

Willem says nothing, not that the Satedan honestly expected him to suddenly spout forth an endlessly litany that would leave Rodney McKay blue-lipped. Instead, those blue eyes of the _skrae_'s flicker to his side, down the long length of his muscle-knotted arm to the black blade easily cradled in his hand. Ronon furrows his brow, following the line created there by the exaggerated point emphasized by the maddeningly sharp knife, into the dizzying sea of white flakes swirling on the wind and spying the ghostly shadow of an unusual, narrow shape in the white.

"What...?"

The _skrae _eases off of the Satedan, allowing Ronon to clamber unsteadily to his feet, staggering slightly against the furious gales before approaching the silhouette cautiously, finding a short obelisk of formed concrete and painted a smooth, creamy white. He reaches out, allowing his fingertips to grace the shadow, finding it to be a cool, damp stone, drenched by the pelting snow until covered with a frozen sheen. Ronon drops to his knees in the snow, feeling the icy dampness seep through his pants but not caring as he runs his fingers over the obelisk and catching them on something, a carved indentation. Ronon brushes at the snow, slapping it away and finding a narrow line of letters arrange vertically on the stone and marked with black paint.

_East Lake Drive_

Ronon turns, his mouth hanging open in surprise as he looks to the _skrae _rising and approaching slowly through the snow. "A town. How did you know?"

Willem dips his head, crouching to sweep at the snow at his feet for a moment. When the _skrae _has cleared a hole before him in the drifts, he slips his kukri into it, scratching at something buried there. A harsh, scraping sound of metal on rough rock jars the mountain through the wind, and Ronon cringes at the ugly noise. It is the sound of metal on the rock that these people form their roads with. Ronon feels his blood warm now, but not with rage, with hope. They are close now.

"How much further?"

The _skrae _simply points with his curved blade.

xxxx

The _skrae, _Kylie, has held few regrets to her life since the coming of the Wraith. She longer dwells on the time she was caught cheating on a quiz, nor how her accountant manipulated her taxes to glean a little extra on her refund, nor running a few red lights on the occasion while late for rehearsal, nor on the small slights she dealt out during her life to people who were undeserving of such treatment. All these petty regrets have fallen away in favor of the larger, more important things. The few that Kylie maintains, however, are grand and unforgivable sins.

The first of which being her servitude to those abominations, the Wraith. She has bowed to them as her lords and masters, served a great and mighty Queen. She has stood by and watched countless of her fellow Americans - no, her fellow _humans _- brought before her Queen to be fed on, and she did it as a proper _skrae_ without uttering a single sound or betraying the porcelain veneer of her features in any way, as though the life snuffed out before her eyes were worth no more than an insect crushed underfoot. It is a most grievous sin which Kylie has committed, to sit so idly back and do nothing to save her fellow man, even if it were to extend her own miserable existence after the fall of her world. She will never forgive herself for this most unholy of transgressions against her very species.

The second of which being quite simply Klutch.

The third of which being John Sheppard. Every night she has spent at Foothold, Kylie has kept a keen ear open for McKay's tales of wonder and adventure, savoring most particularly the stories of John Sheppard squaring off against the loathsome Wraith and coming back relatively unscathed. And, while Kylie might never admit it to anyone, she has dreamed every night of a day he would come to take them away from this dead relic of a planet and whisk them off to some far flung safe haven in the galaxy McKay referred to as Pegasus. This, their would-be savior, Kylie has crippled like a common worshipper.

She strides back down the tunnels of the mine from the main node, two stemming bowls of a thinned down venison stew in her hands. Travis had been reluctant to relinquish two rations to the _skrae, _but Kylie is a persistent creature. The infection has spread far, but, if Sheppard is to survive, he will need to eat and keep his strength.

Kylie moves soundlessly, the liquid in the bowls hardly disturbed by the light, even tread of her steps. It was the first item of courtly etiquette the Wraith drilled into the _skrae_ in their diverse training, to make their presence as unnoticeable as possible until directly summoned by their Queen. _Jatik'al'alahn'etskraesin, _those sneering, twisted, and grotesquely tattooed faces of their overseers - _skrae _and drones alike - had called the rigid indoctrination and the stringent decorum of the _skrae_ in the ancient, traditional, and barking tongue of the Wraith. The _skrae _are the impeccably well groomed servants befitting of royalty, instructed and molded until perfection is achieved. The training has left her silent as the grave.

Bile splashes at the back of her palette at the memories of her early training, but her expression remains void and blank. There had been six of them originally selected from the huddled, shivering, and utterly terrified masses of the cullings, hand picked by the Queen herself as she strolled and tasted, siftting through their minds. Willem and Kylie had been among them, holding one another's hand and staring out vapidly at the beasts before them in a pure defiance forged from absolute horror. The Wraith Queen had her chosen fed, watered, groomed, and dressed like pets to be sent off for training while the rest of the humans were herded off to the alcoves for storage. The Queen had watched with a mildly piqued amusement as the overseers had taught the six candidates to move soundless by walking with round, flat plates piled precariously high with silver, bell like spheres that sounded at the slightest of jars. Kylie had stumbled on an ankle still sore from tripping while attempting to flee the culling beams, sending the tiny bells skittering across the floor. When the overseers had came for her, a bumbling man among the chosen had thrown himself at her, tossing up his own plate of bells and crying it out that it had been his own clumsy fault, jostling Willem as he did, spilling several of his bells. It might have been quite comical were it not for the predatory eyes of the clearly displeased Queen upon them. When everything had stilled once more, the three chosen held by the scruff of their necks by bulky drones, the Queen had quite simply ordered that the three be punished once for every fallen bell as well as every word spoken out of turn. Afterwards, the Queen had gleefully watched as the three bloodied candidates shambled across the floor on aching hands and knees to reverently collect each and every of the near sixty bells before being allowed to collapse to unconsciousness. Kylie dimly remembers awaking in the darkened, blue alcoves surrounded by organic tendrils that held firm about her slender body and flanked by that well-meaning oaf and Willem, serenaded by the pitiful moans and laments of the culled humans in storage all about them before the Wraith came to fetch and restore the three to return to their training.

It was before the Wraith came for them that Kylie had first heard the stories of John Sheppard, the Stargat, and _Atlantis_. It had been but a tiny, fragile dream then, a frail hope flickering in the darkness, but Kylie had held it close. She had listened to the stories, memorizing each and every bit of the tales even as she drew near to the other five slowly maturing _skrae _before the Queen took to their training with a personal and attentive hand.

It is funny. In Kylie's dreams, Sheppard is always taller and built more like Ronon.

xxxx

The sound of the door creaking open wakes Sheppard from his light and nightmare riddled sleep. McKay shuffles inside, accompanied by Amerie, each carrying a few things and setting them well out of sight on the other side of the room. Sheppard struggles to pull himself back and into a more upright position, failing miserably. Rodney turns to him and assists simply before returning to fiddle with whatever things he has brought, his back to Sheppard as thought concealing.

"I heard she sang for you," Rodney says oddly, his voice distant and disconcertingly detached in a way that penetrates even the abysmal fog of Sheppard's mind. "I have to admit, I'm jealous."

Sheppard furrows his brow despite the effort and energy the simple act takes. His reserves of both have been long depleted by the fever, burnt up by infection, but the colonel knows he must fight the ever intoxicating pull of sleep. Something is happening around him. There is an inordinate amount of preparation and motion to his left in the shadows and about the crisp, orange firelight. A metallic gleam catches his eyes, but whatever they Rodney have is quickly tucked away hidden from his sight once more.

Rodney goes on babbling even as he folds back the warm quilt from Sheppard's leg and begins to gingerly lift the bandages, hissing at the stench of the rotted flesh and the gut-wrenching sight of the expanding necrosis. "She used to sing opera, did you know that?" The physicist even answers himself almost enviously, bobbing his head. "At least that's what Willem says when you can get more than one word out of him. I'm told she was very good. Was she?"

Sheppard cannot find it in him to answer, as his gaze drifts nervously downward with a shudder. There are lines upon his leg, circling the pale, inflamed flesh in black ink. He has forgotten what those lines mean, except that they are bad, very bad. They mark the ever advancing progression of the infection as it spread through the colonel's leg, racing outward from the initial stab wound. His stomach turns sour when Sheppard sees the dusky, sickly grey color his toes are turning. Rodney prods at the limp and unresponsive digits, and, to Sheppard's horror, he cannot feel the contact, just the intense pain throbbing through his entire leg. Sheppard winces as the physicist flexes the toes and muscles leading up his ankle.

"She must have been, I mean, she _was_ in opera."

Sheppard blinks at the inane babbling. "Kylie?"

Rodney nods. "Yeah. Her." The physicist produces a sharpie marker to carefully trace a new black line across Sheppard's leg, above the knee this time and well ahead of the infection that rages through the lower leg. "She was some kind of a prodigy, a diva, or something like that. Woosley had a cd or two of hers." Rodney sniffs, obviously desperately clinging to any semblance of normal conversation with such ferocity that it frightens Sheppard. "Used to play it all the time."

His instincts scream at John, but it is so hard to make any sense of it.

xxxx

Willem and Ronon locate the Tannersville Clinic with little trouble now that they have arrived in town. It is a humble, squat, brick building, vastly different from the mental image Ronon has harbored through the long trek in the snow and ice. It is a relatively unassuming structure, plain and with only a basic overhang protecting the front door, and rather boxy in design, adorned only by a rather bland, wooden sign boasting the name under a crusting of snow. Once neatly manicured shrubbery flanks the building along rows of stacked slate, the now uneven branches whipping and snapping in the winds. A few of the windows have been shattered by fallen trees and perhaps raiders. Ronon shudders at the thought but moves on, following the _skrae _to where he ties the remaining horse beneath the overhang.

Ronon moves towards the door silently embracing the protection the sheltered overhang provides from the howling winds and driving snow. His fingertips grace the door beside the knob where the wood has splintered oddly. Someone has pried the lock before, likely with a crowbar or a knife judging by the damage. Ronon looks to the _skrae_, but Willem simply leans against the wall, folding his arms across his chest.

The Satedan sighs and shrugs it off. It is likely for the better if the _skrae _keeps watch. The cold does not favor the Wraith, but they cannot afford to let their guard down now that they are so very close to their goal.

Ronon pushes the door open, finding resistance there. The Satedan hunkers down, shoving against it hard with his shoulder to push aside what appears to be blocking the motion. The offending obstruction gives, and Ronon slips into the darkened building without delay.

The clinic's interior lies in shambles. Chairs have been overturned along with small tables, tossing their contents in a wild mess. A scattered array of various strewn paperwork litters the floor, all wrinkled and yellowed with age, their musty edges curling upwards. Occasionally, the vague hinting of a face or sumptuous color image peeks from between the forgotten files, magazines covers with ink that has bled into swollen, moldy blotches that render the photographs unrecognizable atop their fat, water-logged pages. Glass shards sparkle in the chaos. Shriveled golden stalks of potted plants long left without any care stand in macabre vigil amid piles of their own dropped leaves, lining the sills to the few windows not broken. A few lie upon the ground, the terracotta shattered into spray patterns of richly orange chips, the dried cakes of dirt tracked over the piles of paper and files.

Ronon treads carefully over the contents of what may have once been a quaint mountain clinic office, through a swinging, faux-wood door and into a long, narrow hall leading into the back. Hospitals and clinics do not differ much between the planets and galaxies. Exceedingly few doctors or healers in Pegasus and the Milky Way galaxies are foolish enough to leave their actual medications or tools in their reception areas, out in the open where any narcotic abuser could easily pocket. The things he needs will be in the back, likely in the offices or in a drug lock-up of some form.

The Satedan takes even, careful strides down a hall lined in a putrid, green linoleum towards the door to the only office in the clinic, pushing the door open and bristling. He balls his fists angrily at the sight he finds inside this cramped little office lined with white and shattered glass cabinets. The place has been quite clearly ransacked, and ages ago judging by the fine layer of dust covering everything in sight. Every single cabinet door hangs open, their shelves empty and barren. Bottles lie about the floor, but every one Ronon nudges with his foot sounds only with hollow emptiness that echoes in the abandoned clinic. Outside, a lonely wind howls the rage that Ronon feels seeping into every inch of his body; any medicines and antibiotics once there are long gone.

Glass crunches under approaching footsteps behind him.

Ronon stiffens but simply sighs. "There was never any medicine here, was there, Willem?"

The _skrae _does not respond. The Satedan does not expect him to. Anything Willem could say would only serve to enrage the runner, whether by the admission of a lie or the fabrication of a new one. The Satedan can tell. The choking dust that covers everything in sight is even and pristine, undisturbed for some time.

"You knew, didn't you?"

There is the sound of shifting weight behind Ronon, likely a shrug, but no verbal answer. That does not matter. The runner needs no answer from Willem, no petty lie nor bending of the truth. He badly to ask 'why,' but Ronon already knows the answer to that question.

"I'll deal with you later," Ronon promises sternly as he storms past the silent and waiting _skrae _and back into the awaiting blizzard. "Damnit."

xxxx

Suddenly, things move so very quickly as Sulley and Eric enter. Sulley immediately draws close to the tools laid out by Amerie and McKay earlier, studying them, his hunter's fingers working atop something the Sheppard cannot see. McKay comes for him, sweeping closely and sitting down beside Sheppard on the bunk, drawing the pillow from beneath the colonel's shoulders and dropping in on the floor.

Sulley speaks gravely and slowly. "You'll have to hold him."

Rodney nods in nervous jerks, placing his hands upon the colonel's upper chest, pressing down. "I can do that."

"What?" Sheppard croaks beneath him. "What are you doing?"

The physicist sighs heavily, averting his dark gaze as though he cannot face Sheppard now. "John...." The name startles him, but, after a long pause, McKay goes on, his voice cold and distant. "We can't save your leg. The infection's spread too far. And the longer we leave it on, the lower your chances of survival drop."

"Ronon.... wait for Ronon," Sheppard weakly argues, batting Rodney's hands away from him.

The physicist solemnly shakes his head tersely and simply states, "No."

"Ronon.... he'll be back...." the colonel licks his dry, cracked lips, suddenly very desperate as adrenaline pours through veins and into muscles that refuse to respond to any chemical coaxing. "Soon... just wait for him. Just a little longer"

"There's no point," McKay whispers, a thread of sorrow lacing through every tiny syllable along with a hint of knowing.

"Antibiotics..."

Before the colonel can argue any further, Rodney snatches his hand and squeezes sharply, jerking Sheppard's full attention to him as he explains, "No, Sheppard. It won't matter." Sheppard blinks his febrile eyes, but Rodney just reaches with his free hand to cradle John's cheek almost tenderly. "There aren't any antibiotics. We swept Tannersville two summers ago." Sheppard shivers involuntarily, shaking his head in a bittersweet denial, but Rodney holds tight. "Sheppard... there's nothing there for Ronon to find."

"You...?"

It is but a hoarse and frail whisper of an unfinished question, but Rodney understands completely, giving a slight nod of his head. "Yeah, I knew."

Sheppard blinks once more, his vision blurring with hot tears. "Why?"

"We don't have the kind of medicine you need to fight the infection, and, even if we did, it's spread too far. Sheppard, we _have _to take the leg. There's no other choice." Rodney speaks firmly and evenly, leveling a fixed gaze upon the colonel. "I had to get rid of Ronon. He would never let us do this."

"Rodney, please..." Sheppard begs now, his voice cracking with both the agony of his leg and the sudden, acutely horrific realization of what Rodney and these ghastly strangers intend to do.

"We have to, John."

The colonel panics, his heart racing in his chest and sweat pouring off his body, as Rodney reaches about his chest to hold him close. Sheppard feebly swats at the physicist, but he is too weak or Rodney, too strong. Rodney has little trouble holding him close to his chest, so close that John can hear the steady thumping of McKay's heart against his temple. John twists and writhes as hot tears burn down his fever flushed cheeks, but there is barely any fight left in him. Heavy weight pulls at him, pushing him back into the bunk supine, as hands press against his limbs. McKay puts his hands to Sheppard's shoulders, while Eric grasps the colonel's legs.

"Ready, Sulley," McKay announces, even as Sheppards arches up and as McKay applies a slight bit of even pressure to the points he presses upon.

The hunter comes, brandishing a tray of gleaming knives that sparkling in the light of the mine; Sheppard twitches under the hold of McKay and Eric, bucking as he pleads, "Please, Rodney, please don't do this."

McKay says nothing, closing his eyes against the scene about them, as though he can simply block this all out, as though it is _not_ his friend that he holds down for this butchery. A hand ties something about Sheppard's hip, pulling tightly until his leg goes numb with cut off circulation. Other hands work about him, drenching the line McKay has previously scribed with a chilling liquid, likely the homemade alcohol.

"Please...." Sheppard sobs in a cutting shame despite himself, trembling uncontrollably beneath the horribly still and collected McKay even as Sulley's hands draw near with a blade that glitters with an almost macabre flash.

Rodney leans close, so close that his feels refreshingly warm to Sheppard's fevered skin. "I'm sorry."

xxxx

The sound of a scream, harsh and ragged, pierces the tunnels of the Chatham MIne and ripples right down every sinew and nerve of the _skrae_. Kylie recognizes the voice from that night in the woods at the pitfall. It is a pained howl, fraught with agony. Sheppard.

She bolts down the tunnel, dropping the bowls and allowing them to clatter to the ground in an uncharacteristic abandon after these three long years of perfect silence and stillness. The _skrae _races down the mine, deep into the rock, to the source of the heart wrenching cries, to the infirmary and to a door blocked by Jericho and Samson, two of the more muscular men to Foothold, each well armed. Kylie slams to a halt and composes herself, ensuring her empty veneer remains untouched, smoothing her clothes before the two guards and dipping her head slightly in the direction of the infirmary and the plaintive wails that continue to emanate from behind the door, accompanied now by low and gentle murmurs. It is a gesture that implores entry too openly in the subtly orchestrated body language of the _skrae_.

Jericho shakes his head. "McKay said not to let anyone in, especially you."

Another cry shudders through the _skrae_, resonating deep in her ribcage; Kylie dips her head once more, her eyes boring holes through the peeling paint as though she can see to the horrors hidden behind it.

"McKay's orders," Jericho states firmly once more, fingering the trigger to his pistol longingly.

Kylie's hand slips to her side, to the hilt of her kukri. She is fast and skilled with these weapons of hers, allowing them to be extensions of her arms and her every sweeping motion. Yet they are well armed, and there is little telling how many people lurk beyond the door, nor how heavily armed they are as well. These distrusting people have never taken well to the presence of either _skrae, _and they will use any excuse necessary to dispatch of Kylie and Willem both. An open affront would lead to a quick and meaningless death.

"Stand down," the guard growls through clenched teeth.

Kylie hunches down lower on her haunches and springs at the door, flinging her narrow frame between the two hulking guards before they can react and scrambling for the door knob. Yet Samson moves faster than the _skrae _could have imagined, circling his arms about her as Jericho cracks the side of her skull with the butt of his pistol. While flashes over her eyes with the blow, leaving her dazed and disoriented momentarily before Kylie notices the dirt slipping beneath her. She jerks wildly, tumbling to the ground without a sound from Samson's grasp but not escaping it entirely. They have hauled her to the top of the tunnel in her dizzying confusion, using the temporary effects of the blow to their advantage to get her up to the main structure at ground level. Her hands shoot out, curling about the rusted metal edges to the lockers, but the two men are too powerful, grappling with her, pulling her away and tossing her out into the blinding sea of swirling white flakes.

"Maybe a couple hours out here with the Wraith teach you some manners," Samson snorts before slamming the doors shut behind them and bolting her out in the blizzard.

Kylie scrambles away. With the doors bolted, there is no entry to the mine, and, without several layers of warm clothing, she must get out of this storm before hypothermia catches her. The _skrae _closes her eyes against the storm, allowing her feet to follow the same, routine paths and directions she has walked since they arrived at Foothold, trusting her instincts not to lead her out into the open woods alone. She slinks to the line of horses gathered together in tight pockets under the swaying pine trees for warmth and shelter from the wind and driving snow.

Kylie moves with a purpose; _skrae _never move with one.

xxxx

The knife slices down and through Sheppard's flesh with a disturbingly burning and frozen oath at the same time. He tenses against Rodney's hold, watching with horror as thick swatches of crimson ebb from the fresh would Sulley cuts in the leg, following the slow, sinuous flow down to the blankets below him where the blood pools. Despite the hunter's expert hand in paring away at the muscles and ligaments to Sheppard's leg, it is agony, torture, pure and simple. Sheppard weakly claws at the physicist, holding to his shirt with a death grip. Yet McKay holds firm, whispering a litany of tiny, meaningless utterances that a part of Sheppard's brain recognizes as intended to be comforting in some way as a hand brushes his forehead gently. Yet Sheppard can barely hear the words until he screams himself hoarse, and, even then, his own pathetic moans deafen his ears to the sound of the people around him.

That is, until Sulley whispers those terrible, ominous words. "I'm at the bone."

McKay abruptly tightens his hold, clamping down on Sheppard's shoulders, but the colonel can hardly feel the increased pressure through the searing hot, almost electric pain coursing through his mutilated leg. John tries not to look, tries not to watch, but it is so hard to turn his gaze away now in this momentary respite as Sulley reaches with hands stained scarlet for a survival saw, little more than two loops of metal bound together by a length of wire. John stares with wide eyes as the hunter slips the wire beneath Sheppard's thigh, just below the gore of the seeming haphazard incisions about the muscles.

"I'll try to do this in as few cuts as possible," the hunter mutters, his voice distant.

"Please," Sheppard begs with a voice raw and wavering, casting his gaze up to Rodney, hoping that this madness will end.

Amerie bathes Sheppard's sweaty brow with a damp cloth, breathing, "You're doing just fine, John." Her words bring no comfort; they merely turn his stomach. "Shh... it'll be over soon now."

Sheppard has _never _in his life wanted to punch a little old lady more.

This time, as Sulley draws up on the loops and drags them across the bone, Sheppard cannot watch. A sickeningly rasp fills the room as the saw hisses into the femur. Sheppard trembles as Sulley pulls back, drawing labored pants and whimpering. Sulley pulls up once more, cleaving into the bone with a vile crunch. Sheppard shrieks a hissed and worn scream once, twice, and then goes silent and still, allowing the hunter to finish his grizzly work in silence. His body goes pliant in those confining arms with the rapid onset of unconsciousness. The colonel's hands fall limply to his sides from where they had previously gripped McKay's arm and shirt, but the physicist holds him still, just in case the colonel awakes again before Sulley finishes with the task at hand.

He does not awake.

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes : **Well, it's been ten chapters coming. And I really, really, really wanted to post this chappie with _Desperate Times_, but the eye issue made it difficult enough to post one chapter, let alone two! The eye thing was awful. I got some kind of a grit in it and couldn't flush it out. So I ended up trying to patch it, but that didn't work, and it was just a great big god-awful mess. Which _seriously _sucked because a friend of mine and I were thinking about seeing **Coraline **in 3d (*we saw it last night, it was awesome, fyi). I thought I was going to end up like **Futurama**'s Leela trying to swap the glasses between my eye and complaining that "mine's not working."

As I said in the notes for Chap. 6 - _Come Courtly Callers_, I hoped you liked it. I've been waiting about a month now to post this and trying to build up in the story line.


	10. The Measure of Man

**CALIBER - The Measure of Man**

_"We had to do it."_

Rodney McKay continually reminds himself of this fact as he clutches Sheppard's limp and sweat slicked hand in his own. He repeats that phrase over and over again with each soft stroke of his fingertips over the back of Sheppard's hand. It is a silent mantra cycling over and over again in his head at a maddeningly frantic rate, yet it brings no measure of comfort.

_"We had to do it."_

He tries very hard not to think of what they have just done, this small group of conspirators. McKay does not allow his gaze to drift downward as Sulley protectively folds a stray flap of skin over the freshly cleaved bone and stitches it in place and tenderly packs the stump with layered gauze pads. Instead, he focuses on the slack features to Sheppard's face, to the droplets of sweat beading upon the colonel's brow even now. McKay tries to see peace and relaxation there, but he can hear only John's desperate, pleading screams as they butchered him, feel only the grip of Sheppard's fingers digging into him before slipping away. McKay's heart contracts to think of the suffering they so knowingly put Sheppard - his friend -through against his consent without any anaesthesia or painkillers.

_"We had to do it. We had no other choice."_

McKay's mantra shifts now and mutates as spies Amerie collecting the rotten limb out of the corner of his eye and wrapping it with a quiet reverence. McKay vaguely recalls mentions of field amputations in books and movies, but literature and cinema so rarely shows what happens to those ruined limbs after they are so quickly and efficiently severed away. Popular media also neglects to mention the blood and gore associated with such grizzly acts. Likely it is because the audience never needs to know what happens beyond that, never needs to be sickened by such grotesque details to an already overly macabre act. The act is sanitized for an audience that would likely never see such an awful affair, but no one writes books or movies anymore.

McKay already knows what they will do even without the subtle social pressuring of popular culture. They will not so callously discard the leg. Amerie will take the decaying leg up to the top of the tunnel. They will pack it in snow until the storm clears enough to dig and eventually bury it beneath an unmarked cairn to prevent animals from picking at it. Sheppard deserves more respect than to have scavengers fighting over his lost leg.

_"We had no choice."_

Sheppard never wanted this and would probably hate McKay forever for it, but they had no choice. It was either the leg or Sheppard's life. Even now, McKay dully recognizes by the continued raging fever that they may have waited too late. He gingerly dabs at Sheppard's forehead and neck with a damp cloth, hoping to cool him as well as clean off the sweat and the putrid stench of fear, resolving to ensure that the colonel gets a proper bathing as soon as his condition permits. Now that Sheppard is fully unconscious and guaranteed to remain so for hours, McKay assists Sulley in stripping down the colonel to his bare skin while Amerie politely excuses herself. It will make the promised bath easier, as well as when Sheppard has to attend to nature. Sheppard will most assuredly hate them for this indignity, but this entire act has been done of necessity alone.

_"I had no choice."_

The ghostly memory of a blade whispers across Rodney's cheek. He remembers all too well what the searing hot knife felt like as it slashed through his face, mutilating him forever as it cauterized the gashes into ugly, raw, and angry wounds, puckered and tight. He remembers the steadiness of the hand holding the blade, the precision and knowing it took. He remembers screaming just as Sheppard had.

_"It had to go."_

Once Sheppard's pliant body is nestled in a sea of warm, soft blankets, the bandaged stump of his left leg poking out from beneath the blankets accusingly, McKay takes his leave, stumbling down the tunnels to their makeshift bath. Upon finding the room empty, there McKay falls to his knees, retching violently into a plastic bucket and spewing the vomit he had choked back during the ghastly procedure for Sheppard's benefit.

_"I had to."_

xxxx

The Wraith known by the curious and rather degrading moniker of Todd awakes with a start at the sound, lifting his suddenly heavy head to find a strange sight before him. The female _skrae. _She kneels before him, down on one knee, the other knee slightly raised and bent. Her pale hands rest upon her shirt and hold the filthy collar open to bare pale skin adorned in blue Wraith tattoos, her emerald eyes cast downward. It is the traditional stance of her kind awaiting the feeding touch from their masters. Todd furrows his brow, curious and bothered by the turn of events that has brought her so obediently to his company.

The last _skrae _Todd had tasted had waited in that exact same position for the Wraith's longing, hungry touch....

_"Another dream. The hunger_," the Wraith muses wordlessly, shaking his head weakly.

He has been drifting now for some hours between a lucid and a hallucinatory states, his awareness altered by the crushing starvation that gnaws so viciously at him. He has dreamt of himself at the helm of his ship, crushing _Atlantis _beneath him and seeing the fragile little Lanteans scurry in timid flight. He has stood again in Koyla's dark,dank cell, pacing slowly and speaking in hushed, dire tones to a Sheppard beyond the bars that he knows was never really there this time. The memories drift to him and fade as waves on the beach.

His hand moves of its own accord, the feeding slit drawn to the warm flesh presented to him. Todd blinks at the instinctive motion, surprised to find his hand free, the chains gone.

_"Just a dream." _The Wraith reminds himself.

But her blood is so very tempting. His hand rears back outside his control, the feeding slit wide with delight at the thought of being fully sated after all this time. The _skrae _lifts her emerald eyes but does not flinch. She does not even scream as the hand slams down onto her sternum with a crushing force.

_A roughly hewn poppet topped with a wild tuft of black yawn sits upon an old, wooden chair. It tilts to the side. Button eyes stare up sightlessly. Ebony stitches mark a quirked mouth and other basic features. Someone has lovingly dressed the doll in black pants and shirt, along with a matching vest. It sits there, unmoving, as low and venomous string chords thrum in the background._

This is no dream. The _skrae_'s blood is sweet and peppery upon his feeding slit, warm and rich. _She _is warm and rich, he realizes, full of defiance and spark concealed by her composed mask. Fires burn bright within her, the heart of a warrior. The flame of her life swirls through her veins and into him with an electric spark and a sort of sizzle. It courses into the Wraith along with these strange, fractured images of this doll that the _skrae _conjures for him.

_Pale feet pile high to the sky, each severed at the ankle to a bloody, uneven stump._

She is not too unlike the Wraith who kept her, Todd realizes with a small hint of distaste as he savors her taste. It is little wonder why her Queen chose her to walk at the side of gods, to become one of the _skrae_. As he dwells on it, with each beat of her fragile, human heart, the Wraith knows that, having tasted the blood and the life of John Sheppard, he too would have made a fitting _skrae_ if the human could only bow to Wraith masters.

He shifts his attention. The Queens are truly most skilled at sorting through the minds of their prey, yet it is not a skill limited to them. The Wraith pushes against her mentally, probing her out.

_A hive. A Queen. Her Queen, wreathed in scarlet locks. A clammy hand drags across her cheek with a repulsive, loving caress, sending waves of nausea rolling through her as the lips of that damned slit quiver in anticipation against her warm flesh._

_"My precious little pets."_

The _skrae _bites down on her lower lip, forcing him out of her mind and locking down mental screens all about. Her illusions flood the Wraith's mind, tearing through his senses. Her defiance impresses him as she forces back against him, digging her heels in stubbornly.

_A door in the dark. John Sheppard screams into the night. John Sheppard is dying._

Even the mere thought of Sheppard jerks the Wraith back to reality. These are her visions, her craft. These sick fantasies are the delusions she has chosen to share with him. Why? He cannot say. He can only stare into those emerald eyes of hers as they grow dull and listless, clouded over with milky white, premature cataracts as her skin sags into folded wrinkles. The color drains from her hair, as ink running from a brush, leaving the shortly cropped locks a pale and silverly platinum, as light as his own. Yet her composed dreams persist.

_The doll. The Wraith recognizes the haphazard strands of black yarn now. The poppet is John Sheppard. The fabric to the left leg frays and rips at the knee before coming apart. Pale white threads unravel and stain scarlet, as though wicking the color from deep within the poppet. Cottony stuffing spews out from an ever widening hole in the sewn leg._

The Wraith hisses through his teeth in the sheer joy of the feeding after so long going hungry.

_The feet pile high once more, pale and dirty, every one alike, and every one a left foot as disconsonant chords rise to a hideous and awful crescendo._

The Wraith snarls in distaste at these woven illusions crafted for his mind alone, understanding now as her plan filters through the imagery. He bites back his rage, staring into those unyielding eyes of the _skrae_. The Wraith need not ponder what she wishes. He can see it written plainly before him, even without sifting through her shattered memories as she teeters on the edge, her heart drumming loudly in his ears. The Wraith forces the life back into her, reverting the process until he is just beyond the fine line of starvation once more, until his senses clear and she is left relatively unscathed by the feeding.

_But, still, the door in the mountain remains and Sheppard continues to shriek behind it._

He draws back his hand from the _skrae_, allowing her to slump forward as she draws a gasping breath, pressing upon the feeding mark. The Wraith hisses to the sky; he is not sated. His hunger remains, even now, howling through him and ripping apart his mind. But he cannot sate it. Not now. Not upon the _skrae_. The Wraith and the _skrae _need one another.

It is time to brave the storm once more.

xxxx

_"You should not have run, my pet, my curio."_

_The Queen circles the prey kneeling before her and bathed in pale light. The pathetic, fallen human trembles and quivers with unabashed terror like a sacrifice staked out for her, but he does not shrink away and recoil as he so desperately wants to. He knows his place better than to do that. Even if he does not, the drones have already bloodied him enough to teach him better._

_"F-forgive me, m-my Queen," the words stumble from his mouth with fright as a bubble of blood and mucus lodges thickly in his throat, forcing him to violently hock the offending obstruction to the bruised organic floor in a splattered mess with a sickly slopping sound._

_The Queen smiles widely from ear to ear, bearing her pointed, hideous teeth. She looms over him, snaking a hand down towards him. He swallows, his eyes instantly drawn to the vicious, hungry slit upon her palm, knowing this is likely the end. He steels himself, suddenly, in these awful final moments _thankful _that it has come to this. If he cannot be free in body, at least he can free of this body. _

_However, sadly, it is not to be, and he cringes visibly under her delicate touch as her hand graces his hair, stroking almost insidiously. Her fingertips trace patterns down his neck with a feather-light touch that almost tickles. She occasionally darts glances to her _skrae _and her most loyal worshippers, each of them kneeling in obedient silence to watch her judgment. The Queen's every move is a symphony of calculated maneuver and manipulation, meant to push her _skrae _and her devoted worshippers like arranging chess pieces before a devastating offensive. So it has been these long months under her thumb. _

_"I should end you." The Queen is casually brutal, reaching down and wrenching the whelp's ankle back, tearing a shriek from him as the bone snapped under her powerful grip and crooning in a sadistic purr, "But I am merciful."_

xxxx

Klutch wakes with a start in the morning to the driving blizzards gales battering her aging Bronco, to the chilled headphones dangling about her neck, and to the incessant beeping of her wrist watch alerting her that it is almost time for her shift. She rises slowly, stretching her tenses muscles and popping her joints, blinking the sleep from her eyes too glance at her watch. The face flashes with a neon blue color, glaring in the dim shadows of the truck with the time. 0815 EST. Klutch had forgotten to reset her watch the night before; with the weather so bad, there is no need for guard shifts.

She presses a button on the side of watch and slumps back, drawing the flannel blanket backup to her chin and drinking in the warmth it offers. Klutch rather appreciates these mornings, despite the bitter cold and the maelstrom ripping through their campsite. It is so very rare that they have the time to sleep in and not have to worry abut the Wraith, Foothold, or any other matter in the world. Klutch savors every second of it.

However, as it always does, responsibility nigs at the back of her mind, and Klutch eventually relents. She has work to do today, even in this blessed down time brought by the storm. There are rifles to check, bullets to press, maps to reference and a course to be plotted. Much work for a short day, but it is nothing for she, the leader of this ragtag band of refugees. As evidence to this, a ragged ghillie suit sits in the floorboard beside her, in dire need of patching and reweaving.

Before Klutch faces the day, she sighs and pulls an olive green, canvas knapsack from beneath the front seat. This is her private stash. Klutch takes a clean cloth and a bottle of make-up remover to scrub away the last remnants of Theresa Jennifer. She dares not look in the mirror without her make-up to see the tired, hardened features before at least a base coat. She thinks for a moment white delicately applying a fine layer of creamy foundation and a thicker layer of concealer on the more awkward features to her face. Then, Klutch takes up the compact mirror, checking her work and pondering what to highlight or enhance. She opts for a darker, smokey-eye effect pared with a rich, plum lip color. The others do not care for her appearance, but it makes Klutch feel more.... _herself_.

She stares at the mirror for a moment and whispers, "Thalia Jade."

The others will not see Thalia Jade. They will only ever see Klutch. In truth, even as the words grace her lips and as she stares at the painted stranger looking back through the silver sliver, the name 'Thalia Jade' feels a misnomer. 'Tiffany Jane' fit far better. Tomorrow, she will pick something new, but, for today, she will remain Thalia Jade.

xxxx

The horses scream in piercing whinnies but go unheard in the wild of the storm. For once in their long journey back up the snowy slope, both Kylie and the Wraith are quite thankful for the howling winds. The Wraith slams his palm into the broad chests of the creatures, savoring the warm taste of their blood, no matter how vile and unpalatable it may be compared to the sweet succulence of human blood and life. He is too hungry to care for comparative analysis of foods, drinking in the nourishing life of each animal after so starving for so long. Another heavy body falls to the snowy ground with a thud before the Wraith moves down the strong tethers to his next meal as the following horse stomps and circles, jerking on its fetters and trying to break free.

Kylie watches with a cold dispassion as the Wraith dispatches each of the great, hulking animals excluding a fresh mount for them that she has tied tightly by the reins a bit away from the rest of this buffet. This is a necessary evil. The Wraith needs to feed to be strong, and it will keep McKay and the others of Foothold from following closely without their steady string of mounts. Foothold _cannot _follow.

Kylie has watched several Wraith feed before. The first time, nestled beside Willem, she had cowered as the Queen slipped among her human prey like nothing but cattle, sampling their wares here and there. She had been terrified then, to watch something so god-like and so repulsively macabre move among them with such a callous disregard for the suffering the Wraith imparted. The first time one of those awful hands had slammed down on her chest and drank deep of her body, mind, and life, had been terrible but not awful. It had only been when Kylie voluntarily knelt for her Queen that the feedings went from just tortuous to absolutely soul crushing. Hundreds upon hundreds of feedings beyond that bequeathed to her a jaded disconnect. She now feels nothing but an emptiness at the sight of this particular Wraith killing and feeding.

When the Wraith has sated himself, he looks to the _skrae_ once more, shifting his gaze to the mine entrance. The Wraith as a species bear sharper senses than other creatures, including a notoriously keen sense of smell, befitting of a super predator. He can smell the humans lurking below, cowering in the dark of the mountain. The stench of their blood, sweat, and filth permeates the clearing, even above the crisp clarity of the snowy air. The aroma of fear and prey tantalizes the Wraith, sending shivers down his spine and through his every nerve that are not entirely born of the cold. It teases him to smell so much food so effectively cornered in the mines.

To his great distaste the scent of a familiar blood mingles with that. Sheppard. Having tasted the human colonel once before, the Wraith could not mistake that smell, no matter how disguised. The Wraith sneers, hissing through his teeth. Sheppard should belong to him and to no one else.

The _skrae _dips her head and turns away, slinking into the woods with the horse ambling closely in tow. The Wraith cocks a curious brow slightly before following. They scale the mountain now, moving further and further from the encampment's entrance. The Wraith does not question. This _skrae_ knows this mountain and Foothold far better than he; this _is _her mountain. She leads him up through the snow, stumbling occasionally as the drifts deepen on the slope, until they come to a small fenced in area. Kylie scrambles over the chainlink fence, followed closely by the Wraith who takes the fence in one, nimble leap, landing easily in the snow on the other side.

Curious now, the Wraith steps side for the _skrae _as she slinks about the tiny enclosure, sweeping her long arms through the powdery snow. She searches for something. The Wraith lifts his feeding hand, surveying the warm, satiated slit as it yawns upon his palm. It will not abide a plunge in the bitter, icy cold. Yet the _skrae _seems to find what she searches for, kicking away the snow in a flurry of motion now, scrambling down into the hole she has dug in the drifts.

He finds a sign posted on a metal pole nearby and slips towards it. Snow cakes the sheet metal. The Wraith gingerly brushes aside the white accumulation with his forearm, revealing the boldfaced print underneath it in crisp red and black. The Wraith furrows his brow, studying the English words and translating them in his mind.

_NO TRESPASSING_

_VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED_

_DANGER_

The Wraith returns his attention to the _skrae_ as she continues to dig down into the powder. The _skrae_'s excavation yields something nearly miraculous in the frozen drifts. She crouches over a rusted, metal door sunken in a concrete base of some form. The hefty padlock has already been snapped off, likely severed by a bolt cutter. It hangs impotently upon half of the eyebolts that served as locks. She pushes it aside and out of her way to pull her kukri and slip the blade beneath the edge of the door. The Wraith moves aside slightly to allow her to press down on her level, prying the door up and breaking the ice's hold on it.

The Wraith draws near as she slowly eases the door open and gently sets it upon the ground; he peers over her shoulder. A shaft pierces the mountain, leading down into the dark. Even with his acute vision, the Wraith cannot see anything, but, when he inhales deeply and tastes the air laden heavily with human pheromones and the intoxicating scent of familiar prey through his facial slits, he knows precisely where this ventilation shaft leads. The _skrae _climbs easily down upon the ordered, neat metallic rungs that line one side of the shaft; the Wraith does not need to be told to follow.

As they descend, the air warms considerably from the frozen chill of the surface to a relative comfort. The Wraith basks in the warmth, savoring it after the ride up the mountain pressed up against the narrow, bony back of this strange, new ally. The cold is ever unforgiving to his kind, constantly threatening to drag him down to the crushing mental depths of hibernation, and this almost temperate air is a unearthly welcome change to the bitter, arctic cold of the surface.

The _skrae _says nothing, not even to announce the bottom of the shaft. She merely steps off the last rung with a silent motion, slipping easily into the darkness of the mines. The Wraith wordlessly follows; he has seen her plan and needs no further instruction. They move in an easy, even pace, slinking together up the tunnels and into the pervasive, jarring light of the incandescent bulbs strung along the mine walls and powered by the generators that the Wraith feels vibrating through the stone down another length of tunnel.

The _skrae _pauses before a wide opening, pressing a cautionary finger to her lips and indicating and rather dire need for silence by the set to her face. The Wraith would never dream of breaching the silence of their approach anyway. He has always favored the surgical precision of stealthy, calculated engagements over messy, drawn out and violent brawls.

She leads him forward, and, upon stepping into the node, the Wraith realizes just how silent he must be. The node is littered with blankets and bedrolls spread out upon the stone. Here and there, several of these weak and pathetic prey animals lie in slumber. The Wraith steps lightly among them, moving on the balls of his feet now with a practiced grace that the _skrae _echoes. One of the humans stirs at his feet, snorting. The Wraith stiffens, but the man merely rolls over and burrows his head deeper into the makeshift pillow of his own arms, returning to the lulling embrace of sleep.

The two slip through the node without incident, but the Wraith understands now why the _skrae _left her beast of burden hitched at the top of the tunnels and not by the escape vent. Once the alarm is sounded, they will not be able to leave this way. There is only one way for them now. Up.

He follows her to a long tunnel where she presses back into the wall, gesturing for him to do the same from her actions. The Wraith complies, but it is difficult at best. The scent of blood is rich upon the air here, heavy and utterly intoxicating. Human blood and a familiar scent at that. It sings through his nerves and sends his feeding slit crawling in delight. It is Sheppard, so very close now. The Wraith glances to where the _skrae_ hides in the shadows beside him, but she simply points with the edge of her kukri to a plain door covered in flaking, blue paint. He is there.

The Wraith takes an impulsive step, driven by the overwhelmingly delicious aroma upon the air, but the _skrae_ dares to touch him by the wrist with a feathery grace of her delicate fingertips. He freezes and snatches her roughly by the hand, glancing to her with an unspoken and unanswered question darting between them. The _skrae _hardly flinches when he squeezes sharply. She merely stares intently up at him with those blue eyes of hers, imploring him somehow without expressing a thing.

He opens his ears studying the world about him, drinking in the sounds of the mine. The Wraith listens to the gentle breaths of the slumbering people down the tunnel. To the top of the mine, the wind howls violently as it whips through the camp. Above them, people move, but slowly and without care. And, in the room across the way, the Wraith can hear the soothing whispers of a tender voice, accompanied by labored breaths and the fluttering, timid beat of a heart that has grown weak and weary from much suffering.

xxxx

McKay sits watch over his patient for hours, but Sheppard does not stir, not even under the gentle ministrations of his caretakers bathing the sweat from his brow and chest. He frowns at how pliant Sheppard is in his ginger touch, how limp and unresponsive. It feels appallingly _wrong_. Sheppard is supposed to be the strong one, not him.

He sighs, slopping the rag into the bowl beside him. McKay decides to fetch a clean batch. The water is clear and still sweetly fresh smelling, but McKay needs to move, to get away from the stark and unyielding evidence of this grave sin he has committed against his friend.

McKay slips from the infirmary and strides to the top of the mines with a heavy heart.

xxxx

The Wraith recoils to the shadows once more when the door creaks open and McKay steps out, turning to the top of the tunnel. He sneers, peeling back his lips to reveal his jagged, hideous teeth in distaste. The sniveling brat that is Rodney McKay has never held any favor with the Wraith, let alone this particular specimen, even before anything happened to Sheppard. The Wraith stares daggers into the physicist's back as he strides up the mine and away, but the beast does not move from his place at the _skrae_'s side. They can ill afford any distractions or any loud outbursts that would betray their stealth.

He waits for some time, lingering in the dark of their niche in the mine wall. The Wraith are a predatory species, driven by eons of evolution to become the perfectly honed killing machines with the additionally deadly edge of advanced technology at their side. They came from the forests and the caves, adapted to dark places such and trying times such as this. Though his muscles tense with anticipation, the Wraith remains calm and frozen, instinctively stilling himself. The _skrae _at his side is a strangely dark mirror of this, her expressions and actions schooled to carefully eradicate any of the weakness and humanity from her, making her the perfect pet for a Queen.

Once the Wraith is quite certain the tunnels are empty once more and they are safely alone, he moves, creeping silently from their hiding spot and towards the door. This time, the _skrae _allows him to slip from her touch, much as he looses his crushing grip upon her wrist. He drifts soundless across the stone corridor and slips into the room, the _skrae _following closely behind him and pulling the door shut to a crack.

What the Wraith finds turns his stomach. Sheppard lies supine, looksing weak and sickly, his shivering flesh pale and slickly shining with fevered perspiration, but that is the least of it. The _skrae _did not exaggerate in her finely orchestrated symphony of visions. When the Wraith lifts the blankets at Sheppard's legs slowly, he finds the heavily bandaged stump of the colonel's left leg. They have butchered Sheppard, hacking off his leg just above the knee. They have crippled him. The Wraith balls his fists in a barely checked rage at the brazen audacity of such an act.

The _skrae _makes a small, hurrying motion from her place at the door. The Wraith nods; they have no time for such sentiments of anger and annoyance. He lifts the blankets from Sheppard and scowls to find that they have stripped the colonel to his bare skin. The Wraith recalls that humans are as susceptible to the cold as his kind; Sheppard will not survive long in the winter storm unless he is appropriately dressed for the weather. The Wraith surveys the room, spying a set of heavy clothes. He works quickly, carefully manipulating Sheppard's limbs, feeling somewhat awkward at the strangely human intimacy of the situation as he dresses the colonel. When he comes to the hanging and empty leg of pants, the Wraith frowns before tying it off in a quick knot. He pulls a heavy coat about Sheppard's shoulders, bundling him up tightly against the bitter cold that they will face out in the storm. Then, slowly, he snakes his long arms beneath the man, hoisting him up and feeling uncertain about how light and downright fragile the man feels in his grip.

The Wraith turns to the _skrae _and gives a quick nod; they are ready now, as ready as they will ever be. The _skrae _peers through the crack in the door, pressing her ear to the side and listening intently. After a painfully long moment, the girl shifts away from the door and eases it open, stealing out and into the hall. The Wraith follows, cradling Sheppard close to his chest, so close that he can feel the pathetic quivering of the colonel's heart.

He slinks closely in the _skrae_'s wake, following her up the mines quietly, occasionally darting behind crates and support beams whenever a stranger came walking through, mindful of the injured man in his arms to avoid unnecessarily jostling the injured leg. Now, especially, they cannot afford to be caught, not now that they have Sheppard. They move without notice until the _skrae _gestures with a splayed hand for the Wraith to stop.

The Wraith hunkers back, curling protectively over the unconscious colonel and opening his ears to the sound of the mines. There is motion ahead, not far, echoing off the rock. He drinks in the scents of the mine, tasting the scent of cooked meats and smokiness of a fire. The humans laugh and joke over petty, meaningless things in these trying times, their voices filled with an obvious discomfort and tension that the Wraith cannot accurately pinpoint. McKay is among them, his own voice softly unsure and slightly regretful.

The _skrae_'s hand slips to her kukri. Kylie knows this will not be easy, nor enjoyable if this does not go well. She does not relish this necessity, but it is perhaps the only way possible.

She gives a quick look to the Wraith at her side, steeling herself and feeling only mildly conflicted by the memories of other Wraith she has known in her time. There is no time for memory. It is time for action. She springs from their nook, the Wraith hot on her heels. She bolts, the dwellers of Foothold jumping back in surprise and fright at the sight of the _skrae _as well as the Wraith following behind her. They slip through the screaming, shrieking crowds with ease, charging up the tunnel before McKay and the people can rally, their footsteps thundering in the mine behind the fleeing pair with their pathetic cargo.

Up to the top of the mines they run. At the very top, the _skrae _whips about, slamming the mine doors shut behind her. The Wraith stops to bark at her, to call her back to his side, yet she is intelligent about this. She shoves a metal pipe through the door handles, effectively barring it against the people of Foothold. It will not hold for long, especially not if they find the emergency vent at the very base of the mine, yet it will slow them down immeasurably. The Wraith dips his head in silent acknowledgment of the quick wit as the Wraith snatches a bunch of heavy winter wear from the lockers for herself and another for the Wraith and Sheppard.

Behind them, at the doors to the mine, the people of Foothold have reached the top, slamming into the doors and jarring them. They jerk and buck against the pipe, nearly dislodging it, but the _skrae _pays them no heed. McKay can be heard bellowing angrily after them.

"KYLIE! YOU BRING HIM BACK _RIGHT _NOW!"

The _skrae _and the Wraith ignore him and brace themselves for the icy embrace of the storm. The Wraith swings up onto the bare back of the last horse, allowing the _skrae _to pass Sheppard up to him before climbing up before him. She takes up the reins and squeezes her legs about the wide girth of the horse, turning it into the arctic winds. They have miles to go now, into the white. Where? The Wraith cannot guess, yet he knows it must be better than this for Sheppard.

xxxx

McKay seethes as he clambers through the thick snow. It took hours to break loose from the mine, too long to even hope to catch up with kidnappers in the storm. Sheppard is gone, and the horses, perhaps the most important asset to life in Foothold, lie dead and stiff in a growing blanket of white. He has let these people down once more. He should have seen this coming, should have known better than to allow Todd to live. McKay should have killed the Wraith while he had the chance, while Todd was shackled and at his mercy.

Amerie stands at the tunnel, clutching her blanket close about her bony shoulders. "It's not your fault."

The physicist stuffs his hands into his pockets. "Like hell it isn't."

"You know where they're going, don't you?" the woman asks, the words almost an accusation of sorts.

"Yup," McKay replies curtly. "The one place she thinks I won't go."

The woman's lips thin oddly. "What should we do?"

"Get Sulley up here as soon as the storm dies down." When Amerie's eyes flood with confusion, McKay shakes his head. "Don't want to let all that meat go to waste." He looks out to the swirling snow once more. "As soon as Ronon gets back, I'll put him on their trail."

xxxx

The stocky horse trudges through the drifting snow and driving winds, its weary riders barely keeping upright in the saddle. Sheppard has not awoken, which, in its self, is a great mercy; the ride would be too painful for him to bear. His head rests on the _skrae_'s left shoulder while he lists in the saddle. The _skrae _and the Wraith have the battered colonel wedged between them for both warmth and security upon the horse's back. Sheppard's limp body is pressed close to the girl, his fevered body drinking in the heat from her. The Wraith sits behind Sheppard, supporting him, savoring the warmth held by the _skrae_'s long cloak wrapped about the three of them.

The storm howls and whistles with an almost animalistic ferocity. Only the _skrae _keeps her pale face out from under the cloak, shrouded under warm scarfs and shawls, her glasses drawn over his eyes. The young one endures the bitter, biting cold, for she must for the three of them. She is the only one, now, with any working knowledge of the terrain or how to control the lumbering beast of burden between their legs. She remains the only one with any idea where they are going in the white out.

After a time, an odd warmth spreads between them. The Wraith sniffs, finding the odd tang of ammonia upon the crisp, winter air. He shifts and curiously presses a hand to his leg and to the warm horse hide, finding liquid there between them seeping down their legs. It smells salty and acrid. Urine. Sheppard. In the gripping cold of winter's embrace, Wraith bodily functions slow until hibernation and- eventually- death settles in, and simpler functions, excretion included, become rare. Humans, however, are not designed such, and Sheppard is not in control of himself or such functions. It does not disgust the Wraith, as it is merely an unavoidable event granted the unusual circumstances, but it unsettles him to see a once formidable enemy so weakened and sickly. He is accustomed to an overwhelming sense of self and smug attitude from Sheppard, even during those harrowing days in Koyla's captivity.

With slow, sluggish, and utterly draining motions, the Wraith reaches forward and gently touches the _skrae_'s shoulder, giving it a tiny shake to get her attention. She holds tight to the reins in a simple motion, applying the tiniest bit of steadying pressure to the bit. The beast of a horse stops, stamping its foot in annoyance. Its head bobs and jerks at the reins. The _skrae _does not look to the Wraith, nor does she shift in the slightest to help Sheppard. Instead, those green eyes stare up the length of the trail and towards the trees above them, unmoving, unflinching, even in the driving, desperately howling wind. The _skrae _shivers and, then, squeezes her legs about the animal, letting it walk on into the wind.

After a few moments, the scent of humans fills the air about them as footsteps thunder in the Wraith's ears. The Wraith tenses, holding tighter to the unconscious Sheppard. He sees nothing in the white, but he knows they are there, stalking them through the blizzard. The Wraith curls about Sheppard to leave less of the injured colonel exposed in the event of an attack. His sudden protective streak over the human bothers the Wraith immensely, warring with his natural instincts to feed upon easy prey. Yet the _skrae _seems unmoved by both this and the presence of human hunters trailing their motions.

Figures and blocky shapes appear in the white out ahead of them, causing the _skrae _to pull up on the bit once more. She waits, allowing the dark silhouettes against the stark ivory come to them. The Wraith furrows his brow and narrows his eyes to slits against the crusting, frozen flakes of snow.

The shadows stop, allowing one, slender figure to move forward and come into focus from the white-out. She is tall yet toned, pale against the dark of her camouflage colored attire. Her straw colored pony tail whips in the howling winds of the blizzard. The Wraith flares his nostrils, taking in her scent, as well as that of the others who approach.

The newcomer plants a hand on her hip and greets saucily. "Look what the cat drug in."

The _skrae _dips her head but shifts her weight, letting the heavy, protective clothing slip from her shoulders and off of both the Wraith and Sheppard. The Wraith hisses against the snap of the icy cold upon his face. He holds Sheppard tighter against him, clutching protectively to the unconscious man against the chill.

The stranger's eyes go wide at the sight of the Wraith and the amputee. "Jesus, Kylie. Come on, come on. Lets get you out of the cold."

The Wraith feels the tension slide from his muscles as he relaxes once more. The odd newcomer leads them along through the ever thickening snow. The Wraith stares out curiously as these strangers in the woods bring them to an encampment of half-buried tents and trucks covered in white blankets. The blonde calls out orders left and right, summoning up people from their warm tents to help. The _skrae _draws up on the horse in the center of camp, slipping off the side and reaching up for Sheppard. The Wraith flinches, pulling Sheppard against him once more as the humans move into a flurry about them.

The _skrae _extends her reach once more, gesturing for the Wraith to pass Sheppard down to her, but the Wraith stiffens. "What will they do with him?"

The blonde is at Kylie's side in a moment, staring up as the wind draws her scent to the Wraith's facial slits. He tastes her, drinking in her scent. She _looks _female. She _sounds _female. Yet she _smells _distinctly male. The Wraith holds close to Sheppard, unnerved by the clear deception and unrelenting in his defiance to the _skrae_'s unspoken request for him to lower the colonel to her.

The blonde scowls back at the Wraith, her pink lips scrunched together as she snaps, "What's with the vamp?" The _skrae _does not respond save to reach once more for Sheppard; when the Wraith recoils once more away from her, the blonde rolls her eyes and sighs, "We're not going to hurt him."

The Wraith lifts a lip to bare his teeth in a feral display; Wraith bow to no human.

The blonde frowns. "You can trust us."

The Wraith says nothing save to hiss through his pointed fangs. Sheppard had trusted McKay and lost a leg to that trust. These humans driven so close to the brink are unpredictable and dangerous, much more so than even the most ravenous of Queens. He will not chance Sheppard's life again by being so blinded by trust.

The blonde female shakes her head and points accusingly, barking brusquely, "Fine. You want to stay out in the cold and let him freeze to death, that's your deal. But you turn that horse away and do it somewhere the hell else."

The Wraith bristles, but the blonde does not yield, folding her arms across her chest. Finally, the Wraith lets out a breath and gently slides Sheppard to the side, easing the colonel into the _skrae_'s waiting arms. The blonde swoops to the colonel's other side, throwing his arm over her shoulders. She gives the _skrae _a nod and helps take up his weight.

They take a few, ambling steps away before the blonde calls over her shoulder, "Well, you coming?"

The Wraith blinks but jumps from the horse and follows; he has no other choice.

The blonde snorts. "Thought so."

The Wraith follows through the hazy snow storm to a large human vehicle. The blonde swings open the back hatch and climbs up into the back. She swiftly moves to gather up armloads of blankets from the back seat before setting it down flat, making a wide, long space for Sheppard. The _skrae _moves to help lift Sheppard, but the Wraith swoops up to his side before they can manhandle him any further. He tenderly scoops up Sheppard's legs, mindful of the mangled stump, helping them place the colonel upon the downy blankets. The colonel moans from all the motion, flinching slightly and wrinkling his features before stilling once more. The _skrae _reaches back and shuts the truck behind them, sealing out the cold winds and sealing in the damp body heat.

The blonde frowns, placing her fingers to Sheppard's carotid artery before shaking her head. "We need to get him out of these clothes and into something warm and dry." She raises her gaze to both the _skrae _and the Wraith. "Same could be said about you two." She unties the pants leg and jerks away from the blood soaked bandages, gasping, "Who did this to him?"

The Wraith sniffs hotly. "Human friends."

The blonde stranger blinks at the response before giving another toss of her head. "Sucks." She glances to the Wraith, peering into him intently and curiously before reaching for Sheppard's shirt, opening it just wide enough to allow a cursory scan his pale, sweat coated chest. "He's not a worshipper, is he?"

"No," the Wraith admits solemnly; he has intensely respected Sheppard's resilience and stubborn defiance against the addicting qualities of the enzyme, regardless the numerous times the colonel has been fed on.

The stranger sighs once more, shooting a quick glance to the _skrae_ before turning his focus back to the Wraith. "Your kind don't like the cold, do you?"

"No."

The blonde's stern expression softens. "It's lethal to you guys, isn't it?" The Wraith shrugs his shoulders, but the answer is obvious. "Why did you risk your life to save him? Why didn't you just feed?"

The Wraith draws a quick breath; he thinks for a moment before answering. "No individual, no Wraith, and no human, deserves this..." His expression twists to a tight grimace. "This butchery." He sighs. "Not this man."

The blonde seems satisfied by the answer, returning her undivided attention to the ailing man before her; the Wraith crouches over Sheppard, looming beside her and asking, "Can you help him?"

The blonde sighs, rubs her forehead, and replies honestly, "Too soon to tell."

The Wraith gives a grim nod and allows the blonde to work.

xxxx

It is late in the night when the blonde announces that she has done all she can for Sheppard, that only time will tell whether or not Sheppard will survive. The Wraith nods numbly as the cold damp of his clothes seeps down to the bone. The _skrae _brings him fresh clothes - _human _clothes - to change into as she and the blonde leave him in the silent truck to fetch something to eat and offer the Wraith some measure of privacy. The Wraith changes quickly, shucking off the damp leathers and setting them aside to try in favor of this unusual and mildly uncomfortable human clothing.

Midway through pulling some sort of knit shirt over his head, a low groan comes from the man beside him. The Wraith jerks the shirt down and twists to face Sheppard, his brow drawn in concern. He touches Sheppard's shoulder, but the colonel stills for a brief moment.

"No...." Sheppard murmurs meekly. "Ro....ney.... please."

The Wraith frowns, gently touching Sheppard's shoulder. The colonel feels warm, too warm for a human. He body flushes with fevered heat and trembles against it. Sheppard's breathing seems somehow more labored, as though each breath is a struggle. The Wraith leans close, listening to the shallow rasps.

"Hey, you'd better not be doing what I think you're doing," the blonde's curt voice snaps as she opens the front door to the truck and scrambles inside and out of the cold, setting a steaming mug on the seat beside her.

The Wraith draws back, insulted. "I would not feed upon him."

"You'd better not," the stranger barks. "I went through a lot of trouble this afternoon trying to patch him up."

The Wraith dips his head. "Of course."

The stranger nods, sated by the Wraith's response as she climbs over the seat and into the back with Sheppard and the Wraith. "Has he eaten anything?" The Wraith shrugs, and the stranger sighs. "Help me. We need to get him upright."

The Wraith assists her, drawing Sheppard up and holding him close. He eases the colonel into an upright position, leaning the human against his chest. The blonde sits beside the two men, tipping the cup to Sheppard's lips. Her long fingers stroke the colonel's throat, massaging the muscles and stimulating swallowing. The blonde works slowly, careful not to force too much on the man in her care. The Wraith sniffs, studying the scent of what seems to be a broth of some kind. Eventually, she sets the cup down and aids the Wraith ease Shepard back onto the blankets. The Wraith gently helps wrap the blankets about the colonel tightly as he gives a tiny moan of protest.

The blonde does not look the Wraith in the face as she speaks. "You two must be real special for Kylie to have brought you up here." The Wraith does not answer, and, so, the stranger goes on, "He must be special if you haven't eaten him yet."

"As must I if you have not attempted to chain or kill me," the Wraith counters in his irritation as he tends to the injured man.

The girl smirks. "Point." She looks up, curiously now. "So, what's he to you? A pet?"

The Wraith shakes his head, tousling his pale locks. "No." He pauses for a moment, seeking out the appropriate human term for his allegiance to Sheppard. "An ally."

"If you say so."

The Wraith sits for a moment and, then, inquires flatly, "And you?"

"Klutch."

The Wraith quirks his lip. "Why did you spare us?"

The blonde shrugs and lets out a heavy breath. "Because you could have killed him at any time, and you didn't." She shakes her head. "And because Kylie trusts you. Why, I have no clue. She seems to think you're okay, and, for right now, that's good enough for me."

The Wraith dabs a dry cloth to Sheppard's forehead, soaking up the sweat, looking away as he asks, "Why do you not hide in the mines with Rodney McKay?"

Klutch hoots and shakes her head, spitting, "We're not.... welcome."

"And why is that?" the Wraith presses curiously, but Klutch does not answer as opens one of the doors to leave. Unbidden, the question that has been bothering the Wraith for so long slips from his lips. "What are you?"

The blonde bristles and whispers darkly, "A _curio_." She looks down. "Just like you."

With that, she climbs out of the truck and into the wild winds of the storm. The Wraith sighs and slumps back beside Sheppard; He will keep watch over the colonel through the night had hope that the man does not perish. The Wraith ponders idly at this sudden and abrupt change in his life that he should be the one caring so intently for a human, let alone one that was by and large considered to be the prime enemy to his entire species.

Sheppard murmurs in his sleep once more, something that sounds vaguely like Rodney McKay's name. The Wraith frowns. It seems wrong that he should care more for Sheppard than those of his own species. Yet, then again, humans are an entirely different species, petty and uncaring. Were this Wraith faced with a comrade who had been as badly injured as Sheppard, he would have either tended to the injuries and nursed his kin back to good health, or simply put the unfortunate creature out of its misery. This suffering is a sadistic mockery. A distant part of the Wraith's mind wonders which species is the true monsters.

xxxx

The storm breaks in the night, giving way to a cloudless sky dappled with thousands of glittering stars. A bright, swollen moon hangs in the velveteen blue, casting down pale shards of crystalline moonbeams cutting through the barren trees. The dazzling light twinkles over the snowy drifts, sparkling beautifully. Occasionally, a gentle breeze kicks up a tiny, curling tendril of stray flakes before settling back down. Eventually, the darkness gives way to whispers of orange, predawn light, staining the snow a peachy pink.

Ronon knows he should be impressed by the rugged beauty of this wintery wonderland, but he cares not. His heart is heavy with worry and anger. Worry for Sheppard back at Foothold, and a burning rage directed to the _skrae _that follows him still. The Satedan will deal with Willem as soon as he is certain Sheppard is well. At the moment, Ronon consoles himself only with a bitter solace in the knowledge that he has taken Willem's steed, forcing the _skrae _to trundle through the thick, powdery snow.

When Ronon's mount finally drags into the encampment of Foothold at dawn, it is to the surprising and gut-wrenching sight of a field of snow stained scarlet with fresh blood. A few of the people of Foothold stand solemnly over the blood, their heads bowed. Sulley is crouched in the snow, shaking his head. McKay stands at his side, staring down intently. The people share angry whispers, hissed through clenched teeth and laced with profanities.

Ronon approaches cautiously, drawing up his mount just off to McKay's left and wincing at the sight left in the predawn light. The horses - every last one of them - all lie dead in the snow, frozen and stiffened in their rigor into grotesque visages of their final moments. Their glazed eyes are wide with their last horrors. Each of their chests bear the mark of a Wraith's feeding touch This is nothing less than a slaughter, brutal, precise, and viciously deliberate.

"Your _friend_, Todd, did this," McKay spits without meeting Ronon's gaze.

The Satedan furrows his brow. "Why?"

The physicist heaves a tired shrug. "Hungry, probably." He lets out a deeply held breath, as though drawing something out. "He took Sheppard."

Ronon tightens his grip on the reins. "What?!?"

"He took Sheppard," McKay repeats evenly, turning now to face Ronon with a steady gaze and offering another, half-hearted shrug. "Kylie helped."

The Satedan says nothing, clenching his jaw shut tight. The man moves without thought, without reason, shutting down inside somehow and blocking everything out except for the need for action, for work and distraction. It is the same distance that kept Ronon alive for so many years on the run from the Wraith before. He swings from off the horse and untacks it wordlessly, slipping the saddle from the wide back and the bridle from its massive head.

The physicist shadows his motions, calling out plaintively after his once friend and team mate, "Ronon, wait."

The Satedan ignores him in favor of grooming the horse. He runs the brushes over the sleek muscles and sweeping curves, finding an emptiness to the repetitive motions of his actions. The comforting sameness to the work drowns out the whining drone of Rodney's voice as the physicist pleads his case for forgiveness. Ronon's own muscles tense and strain as the words blur together in a singular, annoying pitch. He needs these moments to diffuse and collect his raw emotions before he does anything brash, something the Wraith's persistent hunting taught him very well. Once Ronon calms, he can channel his rage at McKay's foolish negligence for allowing them to just waltz out of the seeming impenetrable keep of Foothold with a sick and injured man, directing it more appropriately to those who _took _Sheppard.

Yet, McKay will not just let him be, continuing to speak and to argue without response from the Satedan.

The runner ensures that this, the last of Foothold's steed is well fed and cared for. He sets a bucket of feed at the horse's feet and a pale of water within easy reach. He will need the mount when the time comes to hunt down the Then, the burly man stows the horse's tack in the caves, shoving it roughly into its place at the top of the mine in the shack, protected from the harsh winter climate outside.

As he places the bridle on a hook beside the now useless bridles for the slain horses, McKay finally snaps through Ronon's silent reverie by gripping his arm sharply. "Ronon, talk to me."

"What do you want?" he growls simply, forcing his hand to still before he shakes McKay senseless.

And, then, McKay utters the magic words. "I know where they went."

"What do you say?" the Satedan demands.

McKay smiles almost diabolically, slowly repeating the words with a keen emphasis. "I know where they went. And I promise, as soon as the trails are passable, we're getting Sheppard back, one way or another."

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes : **It's Two-Fer Tuesday between **Feast of the Samhain **and **Caliber** a day early courtesy of a snow day from college! I'm supposed to be taking a major exam on Kingdom Protista and doing a long, boring, dull lab. But, instead, here we are with a little slice of fried fanfic fun!

As before, hope you enjoyed it and stay safe/warm out there for everyone driving, working, or just plain playing in the snow.


	11. Those Witching Hours

**CALIBER - Those Witching Hours**

Ronon stares out at a seemingly endless sea of white blanketing the mountains. The blizzard has deposited a little over three feet of wet, thick, and well packed snow over these rounded, eastern mountains. There is an alien and agonizing beauty to the winter scape in the softness to the high, rolling drifts, in the ivory peppering to the trees and in the slick glisten under a hazy, winter sun. The trees sparkle with icy, frozen skins, the few leaves and berries still upon the brush gleaming like colored jewels.

Ronon, however, sees no beauty to this world bathed in a watery twilight. He sees only a rather grave obstacle between himself and Sheppard. This is a heavy snow and an unforgiving one, blanketed three feet deep and deeper in spots. It took an unimaginable effort to wade through the blizzard before the snow settled. Even the brief hikes back and forth between the mine mouth and the tree line have been unbelievably taxing, draining the otherwise fit and muscled Satedan. He already knows that a trip to the southern peak, to Klutch's mountain, will be beyond difficult with this snowfall. He will have to wait for the snow to recede before even attempting to reach Sheppard, but Ronon cannot simply wait in inaction as his friend lies incapacitated in enemy hands.

Sulley crouches over one of the cooled, stiff bodies, running his knife expertly through the flesh and dispassionately field dressing each of the corpses with the Satedan's help. They are the only two with any experience in field dressing large game, but the people of the day shift pitch in wherever possible. In another life, before his time on the run from the Wraith, Ronon might have otherwise been offended by this macabre act of disemboweling the horses that had once been the livelihood of Foothold. However, the Wraith have taught Ronon better. Such a bounty, no matter how grizzly, cannot be allowed to go to waste, nor can the bodies be allowed to languish and rot in the snow where they will attract carrion scavengers and eventually fester until rife with contagion. They will butcher and smoke the meat later once they have dealt with this awful chore.

Sulley sighs between horses and leans back against a tree. He rubs his sweaty brow with the back of his wrist, smearing his forehead with a streak of crisp, dark crimson. Ronon takes this as a sign that the hunter needs a break. They have been working since a little after Ronon dragged back into camp. Ronon is equally as exhausted and worn as Sulley appears, perhaps more so from his long ride, but the work is refreshingly mindless, draining him of the overwhelming rage that the Satedan knows he should feel and lulling him in the repetitive motions.

When Ronon finally dares breach the silence of the mountains, it is in a low and almost threatening rumble. "So who is this Klutch person anyway?"

Sulley sags a bit against the barren, gray tree, sticking the knife blade in the deep snow and patting his pockets almost absently before stilling once more. "Klutch was... she was one of us, but that was a long time ago."

Ronon furrows his brow. "What happened?"

Sulley lets out another heavy breath, takes up his knife once more and shrugs the question off. "Still a ton of work to be done. We'd best finish up."

Ronon frowns but says nothing.

xxxx

_The desert is hot and tortuous during the day, but it is even worse under the cold dark of night. Only once the sun sets does the desert chill to the bone, and only then do the predators come out from their secret, hidden creches. Asps uncurl from their tight coils and slither out to enjoy a the mellow warmth of the lingering heat in the sand. Scorpions and other stinging, venomous insects creep carefully out to stalk unwary prey foolish enough to remain out and exposed. When the desert cools too greatly, turning from a refreshing and gentle breath to a frigid chill, even the predators shall retreat to their holes once more._

_Sheppard drifts through this wild, untamed and barren wasteland of his own dreams, trudging along with heavy legs and a weary heart. He neither equipped for facing the desert by the scorching light day, nor by frozen grip of night. The jagged rocks of this primeval and unforgiving land slash at his feet, ripping the bare soles apart and shredding them easily. His dry throat contracts, demanding water he does not have. The chill of the night cuts through his cotton shirt and thin fatigues. _

_A dizzying moment of clarity strikes Sheppard like a lightning bolt from god, and he whirls about, stumbling and collapsing to his knees. He ignores the stabbing pain of the impact in his left leg in favor of the sudden, agonizing and disorienting sensation of abruptly finding ones self irrevocably lost. The jagged, angry peaks that rise above him are alien at best. The brilliant and bright stars overhead are unfamiliar. He checks the mountain ranges for a heading and finds that they seem to have shifted. Every subsequent glance skyward leaves Sheppard wondering if, perhaps, they change and move, plotting against him, as the constellations differ now, as well. _

_"Great." Sheppard slumps in defeat. _

_"Sheppard," a gruff voice calls in the night. "Never should have trusted you."_

_The colonel whirls about in time to spy Sumner emerging from the shadows about him. The sman approaches slowly with an ambling yet stilted gait, like the stiff gait of Romero's undead. Sumner glares, his unseeing, cold and milky white eyes accusing and bitter. Sheppard freezes, his body going rigid. Yet Sumner merely brushes past him, his body slowly beginning to gray and weather as it draws close and rot away as he returns to the shadows. After a long moment, more figures drag from the shadows, all familiar and each staring in their own, silent and unspoken rage, each a reminder of Sheppard's failures._

_After Sumner came Ford, his left pupil blown out widely to a glistening, impossibly deep black void by the Wraith enzyme coursing through his veins. Sweat slicks his skin as his body trembles with withdrawal. His cheekbones have risen, jutting out dramatically like the beasts he chases so fervently to keep ahead of his growing addiction and sickness. Scars mar Ford's once innocent face, each a grim reminder of how far the boy has slipped._

_Ford pauses ever so slightly before Sheppard to shake his head and spit, "You let me fall."_

_Ford slips away to the night as another shadow approaches. _

_"John...." a voice calls softly. _

_Sheppard turns to spy a pale figure slipping from the night towards him. He would know her anywhere. Softly curved and topped with elegant curls of ebony hair, glistening like raven feathers under the moonlight. She approaches slowly, almost cautiously, smiling almost faintly at Sheppard. Her eyes hold none of the hatred nor scorn the others held. Nor does she bear any visible injuries or signs of decomposition. She is as perfect and elegant as Sheppard remembers her to be, poised right down to the angle at which she bears her head._

_"Elizabeth," he breathes, struck by her presence._

_Elizabeth opens her mouth to speak, but the rush of blood in his ears drowns the sound out. She slips past him, her gaze never leaving him, as though she does not _want _to continue on. It is as though drawn along by some invisible string, tugging her on her way. Sheppard scrambles to his feet to charge after her, but she is gone._

_A scream wrenches from his chest. "ELIZABETH!"_

xxxx

"Eli....za.... beth...." the man whimpers in a soft moan before slipping back to stillness.

The Wraith sits uncomfortably at Sheppard's side in the cramped confines of the tepid truck turned to makeshift bunk. Sweat beads upon the man's skin and slips down in heavy, swollen droplets. Sheppard trembles, his body shaking with convulsive shudders through his fevered flush. His occasionally turns fitfully and moans in his sleep.

The blonde female - Klutch - has left them to fetch both a morning meal for herself and fresh, warm broth for the colonel if he will take it, quietly assuring the Wraith that Sheppard will be fine for a few moments. That feels like quite some time ago, and Sheppard appears quite the worse for wear in her absence, tugging strangely at the Wraith and stirring uncomfortable sentiments. Perhaps that is merely the Wraith has heard to be.... concern? Mingling with a dash of pity? The Wraith curls his lip in distaste at this alien and whole-ly weak of a sensation and forces it aside.

The Wraith knows what to do, as instinctively as his lungs know to draw breath and as his heart knows to beat black ichor through his veins. It is a perfectly simple situation lay bare before him. The Wraith is a predator, down to the core, and Sheppard is human, prey, weak, injured, and ill. His feeding slit begs mercilessly to feed, despite having glutted on the horses in the storm, as his instincts scream with desire for this quick, easy kill. Horse blood is filling, but nowhere near as satisfying as human blood, leaving a lingering pang of hunger, a tiny kernel of budding starvation. A distant part of his mind argues that it would be _merciful _to end Sheppard's suffering, that he could control the human's mind and allow the death to be peaceful in the end.

Or.... the more logical part of his brain intercedes, he could spare Sheppard, draw the colonel back from the brink. The Wraith's gifted touch cannot return the leg these humans have hacked from the man, but it can stem the infection and the illness, drive back the pathogens that ravage Sheppard's body and instill some semblance of health. Perhaps with enough precious _vitae_, the Wraith could actually heal the stitched wounds at the crudely bludgeoned stump?

As Sheppard looses a faint whimper once more, the Wraith tenses. He cannot give Sheppard the gift of his silver touch. The animal blood has merely served to put strength in the Wraith's body once more, only to be sapped by the ride through the torrential blizzard. The Wraith hasn't the energy to spare for Sheppard, not without feeding and especially not without feeding on _human _blood. Sheppard will have to suffice with humbler ministrations.

The Wraith sniffs, tasting the hot sweat of Sheppard's flush and the stench of his unwashed skin upon the air. Todd has studied human physiology well. It is not his subject of choice, but one of necessity. All predators must know their prey to better hunt. The human body is a fragile form, not meant for such temperature extremes. The Wraith scowls, prying the blankets off from the shivering, huddled man. He must cool Sheppard - but not too much. The Wraith uses the discarded blanket to wipe away the perspiration.

So engrossed is the Wraith in his task that he does not notice Klutch's return with the _skrae_ following closely in her wake until the passenger door swings open and the two females clamber in. Klutch raises a curious brow to the Wraith as he gently dabs Sheppard's chest once more. The blonde says nothing about that however, gesturing to the Wraith to help lift Sheppard once more to an upright position long enough to get a bit more broth in him before settling the colonel back in his warm cocoon of blankets.

Finally, Klutch breaths, "You should get some sleep. Kylie, would you?"

The _skrae _inclines her head slightly, suggesting the affirmative, but the Wraith does not flinch nor move, stating rather pointedly, "My kind do not share the same requirements for rest as yours."

"You look like death warmed over," the blonde accuses almost matter-of-factly.

The Wraith allows a minute shrug of his shoulders. "I.... _hunger_."

The humans; lack of reaction startles the Wraith slightly. There is no characteristic widening of the eyes of blanching of the facial features to suggest the otherwise natural fear of a prey animal cornered with a hunger, desperate predator. Instead, the _skrae _does not react at all, and the blonde merely purses her lips as though in thought.

Klutch shakes her head. "Sorry, kitchen's fresh out of soylent green."

The Wraith cocks an eyebrow. "Soylent green?"

"Yeah," Klutch replies, rolling her eyes dramatically. "As in 'it's made from people.'" The Wraith furrowed his brow slightly, garnering a dismissive wave from the hunter and the rather curt explanation, "Geek joke."

The Wraith does not comment. Instead, he finds himself tasting her scent once more, the masculine musk on the air. He knows Sheppard's scent very well after all these days of traveling beside the unwashed human, feeling the nearly overwhelming pheromone traces build to an overwhelming level as they soaked into Sheppard's clothes. However, this is a very different musk, unique to Klutch, tickling his senses oddly.

She must notice his study, her face going drawn and set even as she begins to check on Sheppard's stitched wounds. "We didn't let you live because we want to be worshippers all over again, so stop looking at me like a hunk of prime beef."

"Forgive my rudeness," the Wraith apologizes, knowing how contrived the words sound from his own tongue. "It does beg the question, though."

"Hrm?" Klutch hardly looks up from her work to acknowledge the Wraith.

"Why did you not kill me on sight? Why have you allowed my presence to.... _persist_?" He notes the abrupt stiffness to Klutch's motions as well as the almost palpable tension in the otherwise stolid _skrae_, and, so, the Wraith presses, "Do you not fear my kind?"

"We do," Klutch admits emotionlessly, her eyes going somewhat clouded.

"Then what drives you to spare me?"

The hunter frowns. "We have a job for you."

"What makes you think that I would ever work _for _humans?" the Wraith hisses through his teeth, thoroughly incensed by the audacity of this brittle seeming little whelp of a girl before him.

Klutch smirks, a faint ghost of a smile. "Because it seems you have nowhere else to turn."

"And you would trust a Wraith?"

The hunter shakes her head and replies steadily, "No. But Kylie seems to trust you enough to bring you up here to me. Says a lot in my book."

"Why would you look to a Wraith for help?" he snarls darkly.

When Klutch's gaze meets his, it is earnest and sincere. "Because we have nowhere else to turn _either_." She sighs gestures to the _skrae _elegantly hunched beside her. "Kylie will show you to a tent you can freshen up in, because, well, I hate to say it, but you're a bit....rank. Get cleaned up, and we'll talk."

The Wraith does not argue; the blonde staunchly refuses to bend or yield in this matter. The _skrae _leads him from this makeshift infirmary to a battered, canvas tent and opens the flap, gesturing for him to enter. He does, slowly folding his body and contorting to accommodate her presence as well in the tiny space that reeks of the blonde, Klutch. The _skrae_ wordlessly gestures to the pile of clean oversized, human clothes, obviously intended for the Wraith, along with a bucket of steaming water, folded towel, and a bar of creamy, white material settled beside it. A beaten brush rests beside that, several bristles short of a full set. Everything is set out for his use, and in the same manner it would have been in a private abode by a bowing, scuttling little worshipper, eager to bathe their lords and mistresses.

He glances to the _skrae_ in curiosity, but she has retreated to the snow once more.

xxxx

The butchery takes several hours. Ronon labors despite his exhaustion, assisting even after McKay and Amerie insist he bed down for the night. He enjoys the work, savoring the distraction and using the opportunity to study the people of Foothold.

Ronon listens carefully now and quite surreptitiously. It is dark, the darkness affording more help in the grizzly task of butchery. The people of Foothold whisper about him cautiously, darting suspiciously glances in his direction as they continue to cut and pack the meat. Rumors slip easily between tongues loosed by fear and panic at the thought of a Wraith, even a lone Wraith, breeching the hidden depths of their seemingly impenetrable keep in the eternal mountain stone. Todd, surely. He says nothing but gathers his information slowly, keenly listening to the whispered snippets of rumor of this great Klutch.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Satedan spies Amerie, struggling to lug an armload of wrapped meat into the caves; like any gentleman, he quickly trots over and asks, "Need a hand?"

Amerie wipes her wrinkled brow with the back of her wrist and smiles warmly. "Thank you, Ronon. I just need a little help." He simply slings the meat over his shoulder, and the old woman chuckles. "Or you could do that." She shakes her head at the ease of his actions, joking lightly with a click of her teeth, "Ah, to be that young again."

She walks at his side back to the tunnels, deep to the very depths of the mine and into a frigid side tunnel packed with fresh chunks of snow and ice and lined with stocky tables of roughly thrown together planks. It is a makeshift cold room. The meat will need to be smoked or salted if it is to be saved for long. The depths of the cave keep the ice frozen while the chill of the ice creates a primitive freezer, granting a little more time.

While Amerie helps Ronon set the meat just where she wants it, he broaches the silence, "So, who's this Klutch?"

Amerie sighs heavily. "She was... a friend."

"But?"

The old woman gives another drawn out sigh. "But that was a long time ago. People change. Show their true colors in time." Amerie scowls. "She was a snake in the grass. Fox in the henhouse, y'know?"

"No... I don't," Ronon lies, baiting Amerie, leading the woman through a delicately applied furrow of his brow.

"Klutch... she was working for the Wraith the whole time, the bitch." Amerie spits the words, thick with rage. "She was turning over other camps to the Wraith somehow before we got a system established. When the guys tried to stop her, she bolted, and that was that."

"You let her live?" Ronon asks, tightening his fists in a sudden swell of anger.

Amerie shrugs nonchalantly. "You try getting close enough to kill her."

Ronon says nothing more, walking back to the clearing outside and considering the implications of Amerie's words weighted with the opinions of Klutch. Master hunter. Markswoman extraordinaire. And a blood traitor to her species, surrounded by people who support her without question, without worry or fear. It will be a daunting task to extract Sheppard.

Even worse than the thoughts of the lone Wraith and Klutch were the circulating rumors of the desperation spreading through this world, thick and choking. There are whispers of food stocks running low and eventually out, stories of raiders coming in the night for human meat. These are a people pushed to the brink, Ronon knows. The people of Pegasus have been slowly _acclimated _to the Wraith cullings over centuries of predation, while this world is but a fledgling hunting ground, peopled by those who have not yet come to terms with this harsh, new reality of theirs.

Ronon tries not to think of it too much himself, even as he stands out in the bitter, arctic air of another wintery, mountain night, even as a series of glittering lights - darts - streak across the heavens and swoop to the East once more. Ronon does not think of the desperation festering in these people for there is a distinctly more pressing issue. Before, Ronon has spied only lone darts, never a group so large as this. If this cluster of nine darts is any indication, the Wraith are growing equally as desperate. Ronon shudders at the thought and hunkers deeper into his warm coat.

He looks to Rodney, who shivers as well, but not from the biting cold. McKay has seen them, too, and knows just how ill of a sign that is.

xxxx

Once alone, Thalia Jade scrubs the remnants of that unsavory and ill-fitted identity from her pale features once more in the morning. Thalia Jade melts away in pale streaks of blushing pink and faded blue on a relatively clean rag, scoured off the pointed, slightly angular bone structure to the hunter's face. The name washes away easily. It never felt hers anyway. She surveys herself in the mirror, her skin a rough pink color from the scrubbing, and settles on a name to replace the failure that was Thalia Jade. Trillian June.

She stretches for her olive green knapsack and the make-up necessary to become Trillian June. She pauses, considering the man beside her for a moment before, before shrugging. Even were he conscious, he is in no position to argue or question any simple frivolity such as this. He owes her anyway.

On a whim, daring to reach curiously for the ballchain links about his slender neck. Trillian June fingers the chilled, pressed metal tags that hang upon the chain. The Wraith did not offer a name for this sickly stranger with his ghastly severed leg, nor did Kylie. She did not expect the ever silent Kylie to give any sort of indication of a name or identity. The metal, however, speaks volumes.

SHEPPARD, JOHN

The sick man's name. A social security number is stamped below that, followed by the letters AF. They indicate his branch of service, the Air Force. Trillian June runs her fingers over the pressed letters, committing this - _his _- identity to memory. It is a petty tribute, the only trifling rite Trillian June can afford to offer in this savage world that has so strangely embraced her.

Trillian June studies him intently now that she is free of the overwhelmingly disconcerting Wraith peering over her shoulder along with the silently penetrating Kylie. She might have to consider John Sheppard a handsome man, even with his brow so bathed in sweat and his skin so sickly pale. She sees the strength to him lurking deep within, but, then again, Trillian June has always seen beyond the emotional and mental facades presented to her out of sheer necessity.

As though aware of this scrutiny, he stirs in his sleep, whimpering softly, his face contorting in pain; Trillian June brushes back the few locks of his hair that have become plastered to his forehead, smoothing them along with the rest of his dark mane in an overtly maternal gesture despite the glaring age disparity. Trillian June starts upon spying a cracked pair of glittering, febrile, hazel eye staring back at her. She blinks and reaches with a comforting hand, but he jerks and mutters in complaint.

"Shh," Trillian June murmurs softly. "You're safe with us."

He trembles, but it might be from the fever or from the fear. She cannot tell for certain. Klutch shifts her weight and slowly, easily closes the distance between them.

"Who...?" he croaks, his eyelids already drooping.

Trillian June touches her chest lightly with thin, delicate fingers. "A friend. Klutch."

The stranger says nothing more, drifting back to merciful unconsciousness. Trillian June watches John Sheppard for a moment before adjusting his blankets once more until satisfied that he is snug and warm. Once finished, she settles back, slips the headphones over her ears and snaps the radio on.

xxxx

_John sits in the desert, tired, defeated, and aching when a familiar silhouette shuffles into sight. He blinks, uncertain for a moment, his heart hammering in his chest as this visitor draws closer. John jumps to his feet, startled, frightened as the form comes into focus. Sheppard stumbles back in horror and trips, falling back to the scorched desert sand._

_"Carson," John whispers hoarsely._

_The doctor shambles along unsteady limbs towards him. His dirty lab coat flaps in the desert breeze. A melted stethoscope wreaths his neck, fused to the skin where it drapes over his collar bones. His is skin charred black and peeling away from sickly red flesh as his eyes slowly turn to a jiggling, viscous slop of yellow, congealed vitreous fluid in ghastly hollow sockets. Carson stops before John and kneels, placing a gnarled hand on Sheppard's shoulder in a cruelly macabre shadow of the doctor's congenial nature and warm bedside manner. Sticky blood and pus seep through the thin material of Sheppard's shirt, wicking down to his skin from the contact, worsening as Carson attempts to squeeze reassuringly. _

_Carson speaks, his voice hoarse and as chips of burnt flesh flake away from the simple motion of his lips. "Why, lad?"_

_Sheppard shakes his head in pure, unadulterated horror, desperate to pull away but frozen in his terror. "Carson..."_

_"Ye forgot me."_

_Sheppard blinks, tears stinging at the edges of his eyes. "No..."_

_"Ye replaced me," the terrible visage whispers in a harsh croak._

_Sheppard's head jerks as a hot tear of shame streaks down his cheek. The others might have forgotten _this_, the true incarnation of Carson Beckett, in favor of the perfect copy. The others allow themselves to complacently believe the lie. They treat the clone as though Carson never died, as though this is the way Carson has always been, but Sheppard knows better. Despite the fact that the new Carson bears the same memories, has the same face, speaks with the same lilting brogue, something does not sit right with Sheppard. Deep down inside, a part of him has never forgotten that this is not _really _Carson Beckett, that this could never really be the true Carson Beckett in a hazy sort of logic, and that part has never forgiven himself for allowing this mockery to persist for so long._

_"I... I _never _replaced you," Sheppard affirms, but the words taste sour on his tongue._

_Carson must not hear him. The Scot shakes his head gravely, kicking up another flurry of blackened skin flakes dancing on the frozen desert air. He rises slowly and stuffs his hands in his filthy, soot stained lab coat, turning away to the night once more. Sheppard quivers, watching as the darkness swallows Carson up. _

_Sheppard does not even notice as a seemingly endless sea of other victims of his ineptitude stream past, just staring at the bleak patch where Carson vanished. They are the soldiers he has allowed to perish. They are the fallen comrades Sheppard could not just scoop up and save. They are the dying injured sprawled across the floor of his chopper, bleeding out as Sheppard vainly pushes the bird against her capabilites. He barely registers their petty insults and barked profanities. Sheppard accepts it, for he deserves their loathing._

_Sheppard sits there on his haunches for a moment, hugging his knees to his chest against both the cold of the night and the pit of his heart, shaking as he whispers to himself again, "I _never _replaced you...."_

xxxx

"Ronon."

McKay's urgent whisper and gentle prod of his fingertips instantly rouses Ronon. The Satedan has not been asleep for very long, having bunked down in the lower cavern perhaps a few hours ago, his body craving the rest. Yet, his years on the run have hardwired him to come to full awareness at the slightest of noises, and old habits do, indeed, as the old adage states, die hard. He blinks the bleariness from his eyes and spies a rather frightened looking McKay looming over him, bundled up for the cold, pale and wild-eyed, pressing a silencing finger to his thin lips.

McKay shoves a sweater and jacket at the Satedan. "Get dressed."

As soon as the fabric reaches Ronon's hands, McKay spins on his heel and strides up towards the top of the tunnel briskly. Ronon says nothing, dressing quickly and warmly to brave any weather before silently slipping up the mine tunnels to the top. At the top of the mine, however, McKay is nowhere to be found. The Satedan slips through the heavy, metal doors, feeling the flaking paint and arctic chill of the surface biting into his palm, but he thinks nothing of it.

McKay is out there, astride the last of the Foothold mounts remaining. The horse bears no saddle. The old McKay that Ronon knew so well on Atlantis would have been awkward and ungainly, unsure with his seat without a saddle. This McKay seems well at ease, letting his legs hang down about the horse's wide girth to balance himself. He reaches down and offers a hand to the Satedan to pull him up. Ronon shakes his head and leap up behind McKay easily. The physicist shrugs it off as Ronon mounts the horse behind him and gathers the reins expertly between his hands, slinging the excess over the beast's great neck.

"Where we going?" Ronon questions simply.

Rodney squeezes his legs about the horse and answers, "To Sheppard. You in?"

A twitch of guilty pleasure flickers in Ronon's heart, and he feels the stunner at his side, setting it right to kill. "Of course."

"One thing, though," McKay says in a lone tone, stopping the horse just short of the main trail heading away from Foothold. "And I can't stress this enough, Ronon."

"What?"

McKay speaks with a no-nonsense tone. "I need you to swear that you will do what I say, when I say, and nothing more."

Ronon rolls his eyes in vague irritation. "Want to tell me what's goin' down?"

McKay grips the reins tighter and allows a cracked whisper. "Please, Ronon. Just swear it, god damnit."

Ronon sighs. "I swear."

"Good. Good." It sounds more a grim self-assurance than an acknowledgment of acceptance. "It's important, critically important, Ronon, that you do EXACTLY what I say and nothing else."

The Satedan rumbles in McKay's ear, "I heard you the first time."

McKay says nothing more and sets the horse down its path, towards the fabled Klutch's mountain. An unease settles upon the Satedan, building into something bordering upon distrust. It is a sentiment that stirs old memories in Ronon he thought long dead. He allows his hand to linger over the stunner on his side.

xxxx

As night falls once more and the temperatures plummet, the _skrae _comes for the Wraith. She cracks the tent flaps, allowing a trill of icy wind to creep in and silently bids him to join her. The Wraith does not argue. He slips from the meager warmth of the tiny tent through the dark encampment and back to the large vehicle the holds Sheppard, clambering in when the _skrae _opens one of the hulking doors.

Sheppards looks no better, but, very fortunately, no worse. His body gleams slickly with fevered sweat, but he hardly flinches. He slumbers deeply, so much so that the Wraith fears he could not wake the human even with significant effort.

Klutch is there, a set of headphones over her ears. She listens intently, her features pinched in concentration. The Wraith pricks his ears in concentration, but these large ear pieces have thick padding about them to both absorb and muffle the sounds emitted, giving only a faint idea of the noise. The _skrae _reaches with a pale hand to the blonde and gives a cautious shake. Klutch's blue eyes shoot open, glaring almost accusingly at the Wraith. She tears the headphones off her head and holds them out to the Wraith, her muscles taut with tension.

The Wraith considers the proffered item just a second before gingerly taking the device from her hands and placing the headphones over his ears as they had rested over hers. The cuffs of padding still feel warm from their contact with her rich flesh, imbuing his own clamming skin with her heat. He savors the sensation, basking in the mild endothermic warmth before finally registering the sounds coming from the radio.

He stiffens and blinks, truly shocked by the noises, before looking to the two females and hissing, "You have heard this before?"

Klutch nods. "Yes."

"Often?" the Wraith presses, growing increasingly agitated.

The blonde gives another nod. "Yes." She pulls a sheet of jotted notes out, penned by her own hand, and smoothes it to present to the Wraith. "Always right before a major culling."

"You know what this is, then, yes?" The Wraith inquires, bordering on impressed.

Klutch shrugs her slender shoulders. "I think I can take a pretty good guess."

"It is a homing beacon," Todd supplies and closes his eyes to focus, still listening, still decoding the pattern playing over the radio. "It is calling to a ship, transmitting coordinates." His honey gold eyes flash open to the two women. "These coordinates...." He furrows his brow and listens before shaking his head. "These are Earthbound coordinates, within this region."

Klutch draws a battered, paper map, weathered to feathery holes in a few spots along the folded edges, spreading it before the Wraith. "Where exactly?"

The Wraith continues to listen to the transmission while simultaneously studying the map intently. He has found that humans have such strange coordinate systems, seemingly derived arbitrarily by equal division with little rhyme or reason. It is a flawed system, too broad in nature and leaving far too much room for error between coordinates when compared to the complex system of Wraith navigational coordinates. As such, the Wraith pointedly ignores the series of faint lines crisscrossing the map and denoting this painfully flawed human system of cartography, instead using the geography to orient himself. The map only displays a small portion of the subdivided land the Wraith recognizes as what the humans have declared the United States of America, only the uppermost portion bordering upon a vast and unforgiving ocean. He follows the seaboard with his finger until he comes to a jagged crook in the land and a place he knows a once proud city stood upon a narrow island wedged between land masses; this culled out shell of 'New York City,' the Wraith uses to orient himself to this map.

His finger skims over the pink region declared 'New Jersey' and into a orange rectangle called 'Pennsylvania,' settling upon a point in the mountains and announcing, "There."

"Shit. That's right on top of us." The blonde scribbles something on a piece of paper and stuffs it into Kylie's awaiting hand. "You know what to do. Go."

Both the _skrae _and the blondejump into action. The _skrae _stuffs the note in her pocket and scrambles from the truck, needing no further instructions from Klutch. She slams the door behind her, running through the thick snow as fast as her long legs can carry her, back to the massive horse. Klutch clambers out of the truck as well, landing solidly on her feet and moving with an air of authority, the Wraith ferried along in her wake by sheer curiosity alone. Out of the corner of his he, he sees the _skrae _toss a bridle on the lone horse and leaps onto its bare back, surprising the beast and sending it jumping a step to the side. The _skrae _leans forward and kicks sharply, spurring the horse on through the snow and galloping off into the gentle drift of a slowly building storm.

Klutch bellows with the same cold and quick attitude of a general, barking order this way and that as she moves. "Starfire! Chase! Get this camp packed up NOW! I want to be on the road in under sixty." Two heads poke from separate tents as Klutch and the Wraith pass, nodding swiftly, but Klutch hardly pays them any heed as she strides on to the main campfire and the few people huddled about it for warmth. "Amy, get rid of this fire and start getting people in gear. Zeke! I want you on scouting Pinch Point fifteen minutes ago."

"Sure thing," the african american calls with a yawn from one of the cook fires before bolting to a tent, snatching a pack and sprinting through the snow.

"J.B. Check the trucks. Make sure they're topped off and ready to go."

A bland man nods and jogs off. Klutch turns to call out more orders, but the Wraith catches her by her arm. She is a slight creature, weighing no more than perhaps a hundred and twenty pounds, and he whips her about with little effort. Her body goes rigid with tension and anger the moment his fingers touch her warm flesh, as his feeding slit crawls in response to the heat of fresh meat. The narrow bones of her arm feel impossibly fragile in his strong hold, easily shattered with the slightest of squeezes. Her eyes, however, burn brighter than stars in feral rage.

"Take your filthy fucking hand off of me."

It is more than a threat; it is a direct and sworn promise of bodily harm should the Wraith not yield to her demand. It is a promise further underscored by the blackened bowie knife poking through the human knit article that the Wraith wears, the tip aimed right for his gullet for a killing blow. She narrows her eyes at him, waiting for his response.

"These transmissions _originate _from these coordinates." When Klutch does not respond, the Wraith looses his grip upon her wrist and drops his voice to a venomous snarl. "You knew."

"Yeah, I knew." She snaps back, stepping away from him. "I've been tracking these transmissions for a few months now." Klutch looks down to the ground, shaking her head. "There's a traitor in Foothold, turning camps over to the Wraith, and I mean the flush the rat bastard out. I just needed you to find out where your little friends were striking next."

The Wraith curls a lip in seething contempt, spinning on his heel and spitting, "I have no _friends_."

xxxx

_John Sheppard is not one for bittersweet sentiment. He does not often look to the past, favoring the present and the future to nostalgia, in one of the great incongruities that led to the marital discord between himself and his former wife, a sweet and well meaning woman who secretly adored what he saw to be the rather pointless hobby of scrap-booking. He has long since grown tired of these dark pilgrims from his past, these painful reminders of his failures that cut to the quick. Now that Carson has left him alone, John will not sit for any more of these unwelcome travelers. He picks himself and walks blindly through the desert into nothingness, plowing forward in hopes that these ghosts remain dead and gone._

_It is not exactly common knowledge, but deserts are not the gently rolling seas of curved dunes portrayed in movies and popular media. Deserts are merely locations with characteristically sparse seasonal precipitation, leaving generally harsh climates. Jagged cobble lines the ground, cutting and slicing at John's bare feet, while larger boulders and short scrub plants threaten to trip or snare him ever painful step of the way. He often stubs his toes and barks profanities to himself, the offending object, the vast expanse of the land, and occasionally to a God he is not always certain exists. _

_However, there is a small, fleeting comfort to these dark lands. Upon a cursory examination, the local vegetation seems familiar, not too dissimilar from that of the Mojave. John has, in his past, enjoyed hiking the Mojave, periodically returning to 'lose' and subsequently 'find' himself amid the acrid salt flats, sun bleached rock crests, and rounded sandstone channels. In the corner of his mind, a sliver of hope flickers in dim recognition that, even in as unforgiving a place as the Mojave, John knows he can survive and eventually come across civilization. He must simply keep his wits about him and maintain a positive mental outlook._

_He forges on for what feels like hours upon hours, yet there is not even the slightest hint of the timid lightening that heralds a coming dawn. The darkness reigns heavily over him, weighing oppressively upon his shoulders. How long has it been really? An hour? Maybe more? The sky _should _be paling, perhaps even blushing a faint pink. Yet, the sky stubbornly remains dark save for the glittering stars scattered across the heavens._

_A sound startles John to his side, sending shivers down the colonel's spine. Something flashes in the dark, a sliver of gleaming silver cutting through the darkness. He reacts instinctively, whipping about to meet the rush of air and the hiss of metal kissing the night. The blade cuts through the air and into him, plunging deep into his gullet and stealing his breath away. John blinks at the hand that holds the knife as it slowly twists, wrenching the blade deep within the thin layer of adipose fat, toned muscle, and viscera. He follows the pale curve of muscles up and to the familiar face ghastly pale in the moonlight._

_John gasps, the sound bubbling up along with a sickly, sticky gob of wet, scalding blood. "Rodney..."_

_McKay jerks his hand back, tearing the blade from John's stomach. Fat, heavy droplets of scarlet hang from the edge, holding John's gaze transfixed in horror before falling, pattering to the dusty, scorched earth at his feet. John's body trembles with the rapid onset of hypovolemic shock, his muscles going lax and flaccid. John's legs crumple beneath him, and the colonel sinks to his knees. He gulps at the air reflexively, swallowing down cool mouthfuls, although not certain if it is his body naturally attempting to rid its self of the sudden influx of excess carbon dioxide from the rapidly building acidosis or if it is quite plainly from the sheer horror of the attack. His hands paw feebly at the gaping wound in his gut, fingers quivering over the shredded flesh gushing with crisp, arterial blood, suddenly so impossibly vivid in even this deep of night._

xxxx

Sheppard jerks away with a start, blinking through his fever blurred vision and willing them it focus once more. The lids feel gritty, sticking to the surface of his eyes with tacky, sickly crusts, yet Sheppard has not the energy to spare with even rubbing them clean.

Instead, he swivels his head about, studying his surroundings and regrouping. He is a vastly differently place than the dark mine of Foothold. Sheppard lies in the back of what appears to be an aging truck, a Bronco or Blazer of some kind. It is dark outside, but orange firelight flickers close by, casting eerie, watery shadows upon the foggy, tinted windows as shadowed silhouettes rush back and forth past the vehicle. The truck bears a distinct smell, something bordering between the stench of human sweat, the sickly stale aroma of long spilt beer, and the acrid, metallic snap of spent cordite tickling his nostrils. The back seat has been laid down so he can sprawl out amid several layers of warm blankets.

Tattered, spotted, and sun-bleached photos adorn the interior where they have been lovingly plastered. A few of the photos display a young man with long, flaxen hair and a sad, hollowed expression in camouflage fatigues, a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. Another set of photos shows a group of friends with their arms slung over one another, clad for graduation in burgundy robes, their tassels already turned and surrounded in a vibrant cloud of multicolored, shimmering confetti. One photograph depicts a radiant, slender woman, lean and muscled standing proudly over a supine buck, her golden hair loosely swept over her shoulder and and captured in a gentle breeze. It takes a moment for him to realize that she is Klutch, the woman who had been looming over him before. They are the distant, happy memories of a world long dead, but none of these are any of the people Sheppard met in Foothold - people he had trusted who dared to take his leg.

Sheppard starts at the realization, his heart lodging quite firmly in his throat. He has been taken somewhere vastly different populated completely different people, a bevy of uncertain variables. He stiffens at the thought, his mind lurching violently back to that day on the side of the road, huddled in the underbrush with the Wraith and the Satedan, watching in sickened horror as that pick-up sped by with its grizzly cargo of a bloody, human corpse. Sam's words of warning echo thunderously in his mind, thrumming through him. The only people he has _ever _seen to drive around on motorcycles or in trucks like this are those raiders on the mountain, and the thought does not sit well with him, especially granted how weak and frayed he feels now.

Spurned by the horrid thought, the colonel lobs himself over and rolls to his side. The simple motion is surprisingly taxing, sending his muscles shaking with effort. Sheppard's leg shrieks in white hot agony in a despicable chorus with the rest of his body, yet he cannot lie still. Not yet. His heart thumps in his chest heavily, throbbing violently against his ribcage, driving him on. His hand snakes out from beneath the layered blankets to paw about the truck, searching for something, for anything, for his aid.

His fingers find purchase on something under the seat, a bag of coarse fabric. Sheppard furrows his brow and pulls on it, tugging almost convulsively to free. He pries a bag free, a canvas sack of mild heft with a plastic clatter coming from the contents. Curiously, Sheppard turns the thing over on his heaving chest, spilling out a pile of cosmetics with a hefty plop beneath it all. Some of it, Sheppard recognizes quite simply. Blush, eyeshadow, lipstick, these were once the all important war paint of his ex-wife who never dared leave the house without them. Other objects, the colonel is left stumped by and has to read the labels to vaguely understand. Concealer. Foundation. It is a curious assortment of colors with subtle nuances to the varied hues, a bastion of artifice beauty that had to have taken years to assemble.

Yet the truly strange thing is the heavy weight that fell upon his gullet. Sheppard flicks the plastic compacts aside and away from the offending object before drawing in a sharp hiss as ghastly shivers play down his spine. It is a blade, no larger than a small dagger. Ronon might call it a pin, while a distant part of Sheppard's mind recognizes it as something closer to a stiletto. The blade has been blackened to a dull, matte finish. The metal is drawn out along an exaggerated pyramid to a finely honed point. It is a weapon for close combat, intended to puncture between plates of armor and chitinous exoskeleton and skewer the soft, vulnerable organs beneath it all. It is the weapon of an assassin against the Wraith, designed for their unique physiology to exploit their few weaknesses. Even stranger, the stiletto is a blackened, organic metal that Sheppard recognizes all too well from his encounters with the Wraith, marked out by delicate, angular etchings of their language. Sheppard furrows his brow, studying it closer now, catching sight of ancient, faint stains upon the hilt, tiny, aged watermarks.

A sound catches Sheppard's ear. A commotion steadily builds just beyond the truck. People dart about faster know, moving with a purpose from the look of the shadows passing between the fire and the truck. An argument of sorts brews not far away. Sheppard recoils in fright, hissing as his body protests the abrupt motion.

"Take your filthy fucking hand off of me," a female voice snarls.

Sheppard starts and scrambles as fast as his drained body allows. As his muscles burn from the exertion and darkness encroaches menacingly about the edges of his vision, the colonel replaces the make-up to the pack. He pauses at the sight of the stiletto and stuffs it under the blankets, pressing of the metal beside him. As Todd's throaty rumble draws near, Sheppard shoves the bag back beneath the seat, feeling sleep tugging at him once more. His hand slides under the blankets to the reassuring, cold, metallic kiss of the stiletto at his hip, cradling it lightly in his palm; he feels safer to know it is there.

xxxx

A faint noise disturbs the mountains, primal and rumbling, a throaty growl. Rodney tenses at the echoing sound, flinching upon his steed and drawing up on the reins. Ronon's muscles clench at the sound, but the reflexive tightening is not nearly as overt as McKay's. The Satedan has had much more practice at this, reacting faster and with a greater degree of control, cocking his head to the side to fully catch the alien racket and study it closely.

The sound swells ever so slightly, still far off and growling in the distance before receding once more. For the briefest glimmer of moments, Ronon thinks it is the Wraith, but their attacks and cullings are always preceded by scouts in darts with their high-pitching whine. There is a strange, metallic, and mechanical quality to this noise, distinctive to the sound. It reverberates upon the rock and recoils back through the mountains to its source.

The horse pricks its ears to the wind. Those wide, velveteen bells catch the sound as well, far better than even Ronon's keen hearing. The horse arches its head elegantly back, angling its ears. The motion does not escape Rodney's notice. In fact, his attention is riveted upon the horse's reaction.

In another life, Rodney McKay considered equines, canines, swine, apes, and avians to be quite below the scope of his interest even with their purported intelligence levels. He had never been a "pet person," aside from felines, of course. Cats somehow held sway with McKay, in the tiny twitches of their noses, the flicks of their whiskers, and the entrancing stillness to their predatory eyes. They were, in fact, the _only _animal McKay valued as a companion and saw any intelligence to, often arguing that, if dogs were so damned smart, they wouldn't keep going back to abusers again and again. Cats, however, they were a creature in Rodney McKay's mind that _remembered_, that learned, and that demanded their affection be earned.

However, in this new, strange life, McKay has come to appreciate the value of almost down-to-earth common sense of the heavy draft breed horses and the mixed mutt dogs that have earned their place in Foothold. This Rodney McKay stares intently and with piqued interest as those brown points to the horse's ears flick and turn slowly, training upon sounds McKay cannot appropriately distinguish with his admittedly limited and all too human of senses. He cannot see well too far in the crystalline moonlight, but the horse has far better senses than he, the naturally sharp perception of a prey animal adapted to swift flight. The horse blows out heavily through its nostrils, a sign McKay has come to loath of growing impatience in the mount as the horse follows the sound as well. Those ears remained pinned forward, to the lonely mountains ahead of them. Something is coming, and the horse both knows and does not like this.

"Damnit." McKay swears under his breath. "Company, dead ahead."

xxxx

Zeke bolts through the cold and lonely woods the six and a half miles to Pinch Point down the rocky trail. The forests stand silent and eerie in the winter snow as a fresh layer of powder drifts upon the wind. The stillness is an almost pervasive, live thing, pressing upon him, a constant and solemn remind of just how dead this once flourishing world now is. He tries not to think of it, focusing only on the narrow path snaking down the mountain towards Pinch Point. The path is treacherous on the best of days, the shale loose and slippery underfoot even without the slick ice, demanding all of Zeke's attention as he treads the mountain swiftly towards Foothold and the odd encampment that lies between them known only as Pinch Point.

Klutch has all sorts of cute pet names for their encampments. It is a preventative measure, of course, carefully avoiding any and all prior naming conventions to the places their hunker down for shelter. Their previous camp, the Grove, she had named for the towering, ancient pines that quiver and creak in the wind, bending but holding fast to the rock beneath. Pinch Point is no exception, named for the deep and narrow crag of stone the width of two sets of train tracks, just wide enough to park the trucks and pitch a few tents under camouflage netting and an ancient seeming bridge. Zeke rather likes her apt name for Pinch Point, perhaps as much as he likes the camp its self, the cloistered, protective nature of the slender crack in the mountain.

Within the last half mile to Pinch Point, the trail draws near to the winding road. Zeke is forced to slip among the underbrush of the ditch running alongside it until he comes to the tracks that cross underneath the road. He slinks in the ditch to where it dips low and the road rises beside him. He so hates this portion of the trip, feeling so exposed here, that it comes as a great relief to come across the twin sets of tracks crossing beneath the road perpendicularly. However, this is an entirely necessary element of the scouting mission. When Klutch leads the charge down from the Grove, the trucks will follow the road to this point and turn off here to follow the tracks the rest of the way to Pinch Point. Klutch must be certain the path is clear to allow for the wide, offroading rigs. The road will go on, curve about, and cross the tracks once more, directly over Pinch Point, meaning Klutch must also be quite certain that the trucks are in place and well concealed before anyone crosses the bridge over the campsite.

The scent of diesel smoke suddenly drifts to Zeke, peppering the wind oddly. Something thrums in the distance. He freezes for a moment and ducks back, into the wide, sheltered, steel tunnel crossing beneath the road. Icy tongues of puddled water lap at his boots, but not a single drop gets in to his chilled toes. Klutch has always made sure that everyone in her party has footwear appropriate for the terrain and weather, a measure to ensure against unnecessary illness or infection that could slow anyone down- including her prized scout.

The sound grows louder, turning to a deep, throaty and mechanical rumbling, purring through the asphalt overhead. Zeke holds his breath and presses tightly against the frigid steel of the tunnel. The rock vibrates about him, and the tube hums, the air singing about him in basic harmonics.

Zeke had, at one point, been a physics major at Rutgers, riding out his days on a scholarship for track and field. He had, at once point, found an intense beauty in the impossible improbability of universe, right down to the most basic of physical properties to the world including the simple acoustic resonance of the steel cylinder about him. He would have appreciated the deep, keening timbre to the note cycling about him in the culvert, building and drawing a resounding, harmonic oscillation deep within his lungs.

Now, however, Zeke's mind can only speculate on the source of this aberration, settling upon a rather dark conclusion long before the tires roar overhear and the humming of the tunnel swells to a deafening crescendo. He does not cover his ears though. Instead, Zeke pricks his ears to the sounds, listening to the predictable rise and fall of the frequency in dazzling, doppler patterns. He counts each of these peaks and notes the matching amplitude as a hoard of engines rattles overhead and loosens a rain of ancient dust that had accumulated upon the walls of the tube.

Zeke waits until long after the vehicles pass, knowing that, if he values his life, he cannot be seen. Only after the mountain road falls silent and even the achingly beautiful note of the tunnel falls away, does Zeke relax against the chilled, metallic wall of the tube. Even then, he waits longer still, long enough to be certain that the travelers are long gone.

Then does Zeke silently climb the small hill, quite carefully and cautiously. He spies warily over the top of the ditch and lip of the asphalt for a moment, surveying the road to ensure that he is indeed alone once more. The road stretches both forward into the mountains and back without a vehicle in sight. Stray grasses sway in the wind where they poke through the jagged cracks in the road, but many have been crushed flat in the center of the road. A sizable caravan of several trucks and motorcycles has passed, leaving no question as to who has come to these mountains once more. The grasses point in one direction - down the mountain and directly towards Pinch Point.

"Shit." Zeke claws at his coat pocket and pulls the radio from it. "Klutch, Klutch. Come in."

_"Better be important, Zeke."_

Zeke wastes no time in mincing words. "We've got company."

_"Wraith, human, friend, or foe?" _Klutch quickly asks, her voice stern and composed, befitting a seasoned leader.

"Raiders. En route to Pinch Point."

_"Well, doesn't that just suck?"_

Zeke smirks involuntarily at the scathing sarcasm to Klutch's words; the callous and complete lack of concern to her reply makes him chuckle as he replies, "My sentiments exactly. So, what do you think, boss?"

Klutch is silent for a moment on her end of the radio before responding. Zeke does not blame her. He waits patiently for her reply and further instruction. Zeke knows all too well the weight resting upon Klutch's decisions. She's a capable woman, though, Zeke has discovered. He trusts her. She has _never _lead him wrong before, and Zeke highly doubts Klutch would ever.

_"Reroute. Scout out Carnivale."_

"Copy."

xxxx

Sulley perches easily at the lookout atop the cliff above the mine entrance at Foothold. It is not nearly the summit of the mountain, but the range still spreads before him in rolling waves of rock and trees that seem to radiate in the pale moonlight. Countless stars glitter in the heavens overhead, a thousand twinkling lights dappling a brilliantly blue sky.

In the far distance of New Jersey, three great hive ships can be seen, just lingering there over what may have been New York City. It is difficult to tell without the millions of manmade lights that once twinkled across the vast expanse of America. However, Sulley does not care. So long as those puce and magenta abominations squat far in the distance over dead, abandoned land, where _exactly _they are is of no consequence. As long as they stay far upon upon the distant horizon.

A sliver of light pierces the darkness on the other side of the mountain. Sulley's brow knits for a moment as he pulls binoculars from their resting place at his side as a series of dotted lights snake through the mountains, crisp red and white. He looks through the binoculars and swears. Raiders, several of them, on motorcycles and in trucks, slipping along the logging trail and up towards Foothold. Sulley focus on the lead truck and the driver behind it, spying a face he remembers all too well from their last, decidedly unpleasant encounter.

Sulley swears and jumps to action; Amerie and Eric will want to know Dymas has come calling.

xxxx

The _skrae _rides silently and swiftly through the mountains, covering ground at a blinding pace. Her stocky mount lumbers awkwardly underneath her through the heavy snow, clawing at the rolling, ivory mounds. The creature often stumbles, moving ungainly through the taller drifts, almost tossing Kylie from its bare, rounded back, but the _skrae _merely spurs it on harder, wrapping her legs tightly about its wide girth. She has little time, and the letter weighs heavily in her pocket.

Something is following her; the _skrae _knows this. Her term of service at the side of a Wraith Queen have sharpened her instincts and taught her well to trust those impulses. Yet she cannot hear nor see anything in the mountains with her. She is alone, and, yet, the _skrae _feels something crawling upon her skin, itching and toying with the fine hairs at the nape of her slender neck.

The _skrae _mentally chastises herself for her foolish paranoia. It is a childish impulse spurned by the confirmation of Klutch's suspicions. It is one thing to think there is a wolf stalking your kin. It is another to _know _the wolf is there. The _skrae _shakes off the sensation as best she can and forges on through the snow.

A few hundred yards shy of Foothold, as soon as the horse sets foot on the mining road, the _skrae _draws up the reins, holding them in tightly balled fists. Something is wrong, drastically so. Even within the watery moonlight and across the great, yawning distance of the road, she can see there are no sentries posted at the entrance to the mine. The air tastes wrong, thick.... with what? Her unease? The building shadows? The horse tenses beneath her, its muscles bunching and gathering for flight, a spring coiling for action. It senses something in the darkness about them. The _skrae _collects the reins in her hands, her emerald eyes scanning the darkened shadows all about her but finding nothing.

The _skrae _cannot take a chance, not with the message she carries. Klutch has entrusted _her _to this one, simple task, to ferry a simple piece of paper from her camp to McKay - and _only _McKay - without delay. No one else can know, even if they could read the complex cypher Klutch has chosen for her message, one which only a genius like McKay could ever hope to understand. Klutch does love her puzzles so, and McKay always appreciates a puzzle, any chance to stretch and flex his imposing intellect.

The _skrae _turns the horse on its haunches, listening to the scrap of well shod hooves upon the aged, cracked pavement beneath the snow, a feeling of intense dread building in her to a terrible crescendo. Something moves in the air, rushing towards her. For a brief, brilliant moment as her legs grip about the horse's wide girth and pitches forward over the wide withers, the air tastes crisp and clean with a burst of fresh ozone upon her tongue that wriggles with electric tingle down her spine. For a perfect and pure instant, the _skrae _can almost taste the night and the copper of a fresh kill as sparks alight in her vision, dancing like fireworks from the left to the right and sweeping back again.

The _skrae _slips from the horse and tumbles to the ground with a muted 'oaf.' She lands hard on her shoulder upon the frozen, cracked asphalt, the snow offering little to no padding to break her fall. Massive hooves dance about her head, coming frighteningly close before shying away once more amid a spray of kicked up powder. Kylie has to move before the horse accidentally crushes her beneath those monstrous hooves that dance and flitter in its fright. Her shoulder joint flares with sharp pangs, but she pushes herself up, forcing herself to move, to roll away from the hefty creature that swings about in terror.

It is a pity that she has expended such effort to shy from the horse that she never sees the club swing down upon her head, stealing the world away from her.

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes : **Yes, it's been a little while. No, I haven't forgotten any of my stories. I took a random road trip to Flint, MI (from Central Jersey) to visit a friend who had been recently injured as a "cheer-you-up" visit. It was actually really inspiring to head across the entire state of PA on Rt 80 (which, by the by, it the road in the story Sheppard and the Wraith hiked up and into PA and a route that will become a major part of later chapters). I got a giddy little thrill when we cruised through PA.


	12. In Spades

**CALIBER - In Spades**

The crunch of snow beneath heavy, angry stomped steps rouses Sheppard from a dark and mercifully dreamless void. He blinks in surprise and confusion, his vision blurred by slumber. Slowly, painfully, reality creeps back to him, starting with the bitterly singing, phantom agony in a leg that no longer exists and the somehow sadly nostalgic, fading photographs of summers long past. The cool, metallic kiss of the stiletto in his hand comes into focus, distantly at first, as though disconnected from his own body momentarily.

A shadow flurries past the steamed windows of the truck, human in shape and silhouetted by the warm, orange glow of what must be a campfire of some kind. Sheppard tenses, his muscles clenching and screaming in protest all at the same time. The shadows, however, largely seem to be ignoring the truck. The colonel relaxes slightly, allowing the tension to melt out of him. The weight of the stiletto in his hand is oddly comforting despite the fact that he _knows _he lacks the strength and energy to use the weapon to any sort of advantage.

_"Weaknesses are simply poorly understood and often entirely under-employed advantages in disguise."_

Teyla's sweet words, whispered in the back of his mind, serenading him sweetly. Sheppard's lip quirks into a tiny, exhausted smile, his hand curling about the hilt to the stiletto affectionately. He allows his tired eyes to drift shut. She is always taking such very good care of him, even from more than a galaxy away.

xxxx

Since the harsh swear, McKay says nothing as they move on through the night. Rodney guides the horse silently through the once still and lonely forests, threading nimbly between the trees. He follows the sound, spurring the horse up swiftly through the woods to a higher vantage point. Ronon does not need to be told to hold his own tongue as they move; Rodney's haste and stark silence is warning enough. Something is out there, in these cold, frozen mountains, something that frightens Rodney to no end.

Eventually, the horse crests the top of a steep hill, and McKay looses his hold on the reins, allowing the leather strips to slide through his fingers effortlessly, giving the horse length to stretch and rest. The mountains rise and fall away before them in the dark shadow and pale light of the night. There is something primal and jagged to them up this far, where bits of smooth rock shine even in the dark, slick with frozen ice that reflects the light of the moon and stars. The snow below seems to draw the light and hold it in a pale, blue cast. It is an eerie sight to behold, but an elegant and almost beautiful one. In another life, in another place, McKay might be tempted to sit and savor the majesty of this unforgiving land.

McKay, however, currently bears neither the sentimentality nor the time for such frivolities anymore. Mechanical growls hammer in the night and hum through the arctic air, vibrating deep within his chest. McKay pulls tiny binoculars from a hidden pocket to his heavy, winter coat and peers into the dark of the mountains. Below, a line of harsh light cuts through the barren deciduous growth and evergreens sagging beneath the weight of the snow, followed quickly by another, and another, and another again. The shafts of light come in twos, and Ronon quickly realizes they are vehicles cutting through the deep drifts even before his eyes adjust enough to recognize the boxy shapes of trucks.

"Fuck," McKay spits venomously, stuffing the binoculars swiftly and almost angrily back into the pocket. "Dymas."

"Hmm?" Ronon raises an eyebrow, curious now as he peers into the night.

"Dymas," McKay repeats in a hiss, his voice low and bitter. "Dymas is a raider. A _real _raider." He shifts his weight uneasily, gathering the reins up as he does and jerking on the bit. "Look, when things went bad, some people went bad with them. Dymas is one of those people. He'll do _anything _to get what he wants."

As McKay awkwardly pulls the horse about to head back down the hill and away from the line of traffic, Ronon furrows his brow and inquires, "And what does he want exactly?"

McKay shrugs oddly. "Depends. Sometimes food. Sometimes water. Sometimes shelter. Y'know? The basic essentials for life." He pauses, even as the horse continues to plow through the blanketing drifts with a snort. "Sometimes other things."

"Like what?"

The physicist sighs heavily. "Dymas is looking for a woman."

"Friend of his?" Ronon asks softly, recalling his own trilling heart at even the most meager of hopes of finding another Satedan in the vast reaches of the universe.

"No, you don't understand," McKay whispers cautiously, fingering the radio in his pocket and contemplating sending a radio warning to Foothold but knowing they are too far now to be anywhere near within the scant 2 mile range of the little walkie-talkie. "Dymas is looking for a woman as in _any _woman. He's been looking for a year now." McKay tenses, his muscles tightening and his fists balling about the leather reins as he mutters, "He doesn't know there are women at Foothold."

Ronon says nothing more and allows the subject to drop. It is a precarious topic, one which clearly unsettles Rodney more than necessary at the moment. The Satedan does give one last glance over his shoulder to the hill rising behind him and the steadily drowning out sound of engines in the night. He shivers to himself, but not from the cold. It is instead the grim thought of what this could possibly mean that chills his heart so and freezes his blood in his veins.

He cannot help but ask himself in a dark corner of his mind, _"Was this what Sateda was like, too? This desperate.... this sick?"_

Ronon shrugs the question off instantly. It is too difficult a thing to ask himself in earnest and far too distracting of a thought. He has to be calm, collected and focused for the task at hand. For Sheppard, really.

xxxx

Trillian June watches the skies nervously, her heart hammering in her chest. There is more activity tonight to the East. The hives are on the prowl, sending out their darts into the night sky in higher frequency, larger numbers. The Queens are not merely sending scouts out. They are hunting for something. They are desperate, craving it insatiably, whatever _it _is. That simple fact along terrifies Trillian June.

_"Klutch. Klutch."_

The radio crackles in her palm along with the voice she knows too well; Trillian June clears her throat and answers sweetly, "Yes, Zeke?"

_"At Carnivale. Area secure."_

She nods to herself and starts off towards her own beaten up truck. "Good. We'll be down shortly."

_"Wait, Klutch?"_

Trillian June notes the hesitancy to Zeke's voice and frowns. "What's wrong?"

_"There's something you should know."_

"What it is?" she demands in a quick, stern bark that cuts through the night.

_"It's a hunting party." _

Trillian June stops dead in her tracks, gulping down the quiver of fear thundering through her. "Are you sure?"

_"I counted the trucks. No one else has that big of a raiding party on the move on these mountains unless they're after something." _He pauses, oddly here. _"They're getting desperate, Klutch."_

Trillian June swears, gripping the radio in her palm and squeezing it tightly before swallowing her anger. "Alright. Stay hidden and quiet. We'll meet you down there, and, after that, we're getting out of these mountains once and for all."

_"Copy."_

She stomps through the snow now, moving swiftly to her truck, tearing the door open with such force that it feels she could almost rip the thing right off its hinges. The metal groans and pops in protest of such abuse. Trillian June scrambles up to slam the door behind her before remembering the man in the back, Sheppard. He needs rest, and her petty, childish antics will serve him no good. Fortunately, upon checking, Trillian June finds Sheppard sleeping still, silent and peaceful almost. Trillian June instantly silences herself and mentally chastises herself for being so stupid.

She reaches back and rips the little canvas back from under the seat, pouring out her makeup and remover on the front seat in a jumbled mess. It does not matter. None of it matters anymore. Trillian June grabs the bottle of makeup remover and squirts a liberal amount on an ancient rag. She scrubs her face harshly, wiping away the last remnants of Trillian June until all that remains is Klutch, the same Klutch that has lingered beneath each of these painted masks and false names that do not quite fit. No matter how she tries to cover Klutch, no matter how heavy the makeup or thick the foundation, the marks of her sins always seem to inevitably bleed through.

God, how Klutch hates the face that stares accusingly back at her every time she takes the makeup off, no matter how fleeting of glimpses they may be.

Klutch glances up to the rear view mirror to check her work just in time to spy the motion behind her but not nearly quick enough to do anything. The shadow springs and curls about her. A razor sharp edge presses against her neck with a cool, metallic kiss. A strong but trembling hand grips her by the shoulder over her delicate, slender clavicle. It has been years since anyone has gotten the jump on Klutch and not for lack of trying. The surprise is a delicious one, curling down her spine with the brilliant, electric flush of epinephrine coursing through her veins and flaring down her nerves.

Klutch glances up into the rear view mirror and into the eyes of her attacker, smiling serenely and greeting in stiff mockery, "And a fine hello to you, too, John Sheppard."

xxxx

The thunderous slam of the truck door rouses Sheppard from his light doze with a start. He blinks as someone - the blonde woman - fumes in the truck, cursing and ranting before going abruptly silent. Sheppard holds his breath and closes his eyes for a moment, uncertain of what to say of do. After a long, tense moment, he feels the motion about him of the young woman pulling the canvas bag from the back with Sheppard and dumps the contents out. He only moves when she turns away once more, focusing on scrubbing her face roughly with something caustic and roughly lemon scented.

Sheppard nearly gasps when he sees her in the rearview mirror but curtails his surprise with a restraint that surprises even himself. It is the blonde, with her delicate features and almost all-American looks. However, upon the right side of her face is the same, awful, blue-green markings of the Wraith, curling up to caress the skin about her eye before receding about the socket and turning up to her hairline in an intricate pattern. It _repulses _him.

The colonel is in motion before his mind ever has the time to process it, springing to her, the Wraith-killing blade in his hand and presses to her elegant, slender neck in a heartbeat. He grips her by the nape of her neck and squeezes sharply. Sheppard holds her back, pulling her into the seat between them. His muscles quiver with the effort, and swear pours from his forehead in tiny, tickling droplets. Yet he keeps his hold on her.

It is to his even greater surprise that the blonde hardly reacts to the abrupt attack. In fact, there is almost a complete _lack _of reaction in her. Instead, she merely sits back, relaxing into the aging, musty smelling seat by the guide of his increasingly unsteady hand. The young sprite of a woman even smiles faintly, her cheeks raising and contorting the tattoos.

She croons almost melodically in a strange lilt, "And a fine hello to you, too, John Sheppard."

"Who are you?" he asks in a throaty growl, deliberately applying pressure to her fine bone structure.

She answers with a softness that does not become the mountaineering hunter in the photographs, a delicate ease that belongs more appropriately with Teyla. "I am Klutch."

Sheppard shifts his grip. His palm is sweaty and slick. Coupled with the fine muscle tremors that race through him even now, it is difficult to keep his hold upon her slender neck. The blade presses slightly deeper to her neck, drawing a dark scarlet bead that glistens and shines almost black as ink in the dark of the truck. Still, she does not flinch, does not hesitate, allowing this movement of the hold that keeps her captive without any indication of intent to even attempt to break free, despite how easy it might be.

"Where am I?"

Klutch purses her pink lips together, an odd sort of scrunch reflecting in the mirror as her blue eyes dart to meet the unwavering yet febrile gaze of his own reflection. "You're in my camp. About five miles from Foothold." Klutch gives a shrug, nearly shirking off Sheppard's hand upon the base of her neck. "Maybe more."

Her answer is disturbingly cryptic and noncommittal. Sheppard scowls in irritation. It is the sort of answer a Wraith would give to a mere human such as he. It both reveals and conceals, shrouding her true intent and any real answer hiding behind her words.

"Why am I here?"

Klutch maddeningly gives another half-hearted shrug to her thin shoulders. "Kylie brought you up here in the storm with the Wraith."

"Todd..." Sheppard whispers hoarsely in her ear, sagging slightly forward and letting the back of the seat take up most of his weight for him.

"Is unharmed," the blonde finishes for him, her wispy hairs tickling at Sheppard.

The colonel glares daggers at her tattooed face through the reflection of the rearview mirror. "You're a worshipper, aren't you?"

"Now bite your tongue," Klutch teases darkly with a faint chuckle rising in her. She shakes her head slightly, an almost imperceptible motion. "I'd die before bowing to the Wraith ever again."

"You _were _a worshipper," Sheppard corrects himself and targets his accusation.

Klutch's blue eyes narrow to slits. "I _never _worshipped the Wraith of my own volition, and you'd do best to remember that." She raises a hand to her face, to stroke the blue and green tattoos applied so pointedly by her Queen and her various masters. "I _never _asked the Wraith to do this to me. They did it because they wanted to and because they could. Because they _thought _they could keep me as their pet." Her chortle rattles in her throat, thrumming against his palm. "Stupid fuckers."

"You're a _skrae, _just like Kylie."

Klutch closes her eyes in solemn admission. "Yes."

"I get her, I think," the colonel breathes slowly, his anger and rage slowly unraveling about him. "So, why'd they pick you? What's so special about you?" When Klutch does not answer swiftly enough, however, Sheppard crushes down on the base of her windpipe and rumbles, "Tell me."

He draws his hand up to her neck, intending to press threateningly there upon the fragile feeling cartilage of her throat, to insinuate that he might still have the strength in him even after all this exertion to squeeze the breath and life right out of her. She swallows, her throat working strangely beneath his fingers, an oddly alien sensation despite how many times Sheppard has been in nearly this exact situation before in his life. A small, hard nub of a bone like material skims beneath his fingers, an entirely unexpected sensation from a creature as delicate and feminine as Klutch. It is a feature that does not belong on any _human_ female.

"Jesus!" Sheppard starts, nearly slipping his hold from her. "What are you?"

"I...." She holds her breath for a long moment, as though tasting the words and calculating the precise delivery that would be most advantageous to her, just like a Wraith. "I am a curio. A curiosity." Klutch drops her gaze. "Put your pointy little toy away, and I'll show you."

"It's a trick."

Klutch laughs, heartily this time. "A trick?" She shakes her head, squinting her eyes with her laughter. "I want you to listen and listen carefully. You've got one leg and a pretty nasty infection. You're in _no _condition to fight me." The emphasis she places on the word 'no' cuts right through Sheppard as a nearly physical blow. "You're in _my _camp, surrounded by _my _people, on _my _mountain, in the middle of the fucking winter. Even if you did manage to make it out of my camp alive, you'd just freeze to death in a few hours. So, why would I even bother trying to trick you into submission when you're already beaten ten times 'til Sunday?"

Sheppard's face falls at the blunt yet quite honest accessing of the situation. He stands no chance against these people, nor did he ever. Even without the grotesque injury, they outnumber him, and they know the mountains far better than he, how to navigate them, how to survive and thrive in them, tucked away and securely hidden from the Wraith. Yet, the soldier in him cannot and will not so readily concede, even when faced with such brutal and undeniable logic.

Klutch sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes. "Look, I don't have time for this. We've got Wraith inbound, and I've got to break camp. So either you're going to sit back like a good little boy and listen to what I've got to say, or I'm going to have to call some of my friends. I warn you, they are not going to like it if I have to call them." She pauses there, allowing the stark reality to sink into Sheppard and fester there before continuing, "So what's it going to be?"

Sheppard says not a thing at first, pressing the knife deeper to her neck and drawing forth a second beading of blood.

"I haven't got all night, you know? I've got a whole camp to move," Klutch points out. She pauses for a moment before reminding him, "I could always just take you out myself."

"You wouldn't." Sheppard hisses.

Klutch gives a tiny snort of disdain. "Of course I would." She freezes, her body going rigid and stiff suddenly beneath his hands as if to demonstrate the physical reserves she has at the moment that he currently lacks. "But don't make me. I need your Wraith friend's help, and I don't think he'd look too kindly on me putting you down, even if it is in self defense."

Sheppard's lips press together in a thin line.

Klutch sighs, heavily, deflating slightly to his touch. "Look. You let me go for now, and I'll tell you everything. If it isn't what you want to hear, we can go right back to a pissing contest, but I assure you I will win. Deal?"

Sheppard thinks for a moment, reviewing his stark lack of options before slipping back and away from her once more. The fight has left him, along with what little energy remained. He slumps back into the makeshift bed, exhausted by the simple and swift attack. The colonel lies there, panting and shivering from both the cold and the creeping draw of sleep. However, Klutch, to his shock, slowly, carefully climbs between the seats to join him in the back, drawing the blankets back up and over him with a maternal tenderness.

Sheppard looks up to her in surprise, and Klutch sits back, towering over him. She smiles softly, serenely. A photograph is behind her, just over her shoulder. It is the sad seeming boy with the blonde hair and features so familiar, it is almost painful. Klutch wipes the sweat from Sheppard's brow with a dry cloth as the man stares intently at the boy beyond her shoulder.

When Klutch speaks, it is with a painful reverence for something so very elusive. "I wasn't always like this, you know?" She smiles, a ghost of nostalgia pulling at her rounded features. "Well, you know I wasn't always a _skrae_, one of the Wraith's little lap dogs." Klutch looks away, turning her gaze to the windows of the truck, the outside obscured by both a fresh coat of steam on the inside and lacy frost on the outside; she presents her tattooed side to him. "I never really fit in, even before the Wraith. The neighborhood kids didn't understand. They roughed me up a couple of times, trashed my house once. I can't blame them. People just.... people don't understand what's like to not feel.... right in your own skin. "

Realization crashes down over Sheppard as heavily and swiftly as a wave on the shore. His gaze darts between the woman before him and the boy in the photographs, suddenly understanding. The features are so similar not because this hunter, this Klutch, and the boy are related. No. The faces seem the same because they _are _the same.

"The Wraith didn't understand either." She shakes her head and looks down, prodding at some imaginary bit of fluff on her coat. "At first, they thought I was.... intriguing. An oddity, an abberation. Turns out the Wraith thought I was the coolest thing since sliced bread." Klutch sniffs, a bitter and, yet, remorseful sound. "Two sides of the same coin, and all. When the Queen.... my Queen, went around and picked out her chosen few, she _had _have me. Like a fucking collector's item." Klutch smiles wistfully. "We showed her, Kylie and the rest of us. Been on the run ever since, keeping just a step ahead of the Wraith."

A thousand thoughts filter through Sheppard's mind all the same time. He thinks back on his days on Earth in the ranks, of the snide comments and poor tasted jokes about the Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell business. He remembers making his own cruel jibes at a few of the other men, questioning their manhood at times, all in jest at the time, nothing ever serious. Each memory dregs up to the surface all at once in the face of this tattooed creature, this being of dual nature and juxtaposed gender that is Klutch. She is nothing like the pathetic, sniveling, whining people Sheppard has, in the past, thought of when he teased so. His cheeks flush with heat at the thought, but Klutch does not seem to notice.

"Do they know?" Sheppard swallows, his throat tight in shame now.

"Yeah. They all know." Klutch shakes her head. "It's kind of funny. I fit in much better now that the Wraith came. People just.... they just don't care as much about it anymore." She closes her eyes, and, when she opens them again, the solemnity flees, post haste. "Now, more to the point, the Wraith are on the move. There was a signal tonight. Your Wraith told us it's a honing beacon bringing them down right on top of us."

"When?" Sheppard croaks, his voice hoarse and rough.

Klutch glances to her watch and shrugs. "Sometime in the next twelve hours if they stick to their usual trends." She looks to him, a sharp twinkle to her eye. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd kind of like to get off this god damned mountain before the Wraith get here."

Sheppard nods slowly, his eyelids drooping already. The Wraith are, if nothing else, creatures of habit. If this is the pattern of feeding they have established on Earth, they will continue to maintain it until all the food is gone. He lets his eyes shut for just a moment, contemplating this, savoring for a flash the predictability of these gluttonous predators.

When he opens his eyes again, Klutch is already climbing back into the driver's seat. "Get some rest. You'll need it."

He doesn't argue; he is already asleep by the time she finishes the curt order.

xxxx

"STOP THERE!"

The voice cuts through the dark of the winter forests, cracking like a whip and cutting to the core, harsh and bellowing, from an unseen source. It demands obeisance. Rodney draws up the reins in a hurry, drawing the drafter horse to a dead stop in the night. Ronon can feel the tension building in the physicist, the tightness to the muscles of his back and arms. He coils, like a spring, holding the reins tight.

"It's just me," McKay calls back with equal authority, with the same curt tone Ronon recognizes from hearing him chew out so many lab techs in the past. "I need to see Klutch."

The voice does not reply, not vocally at least. A sound, however, meets Ronon's keenly pricked ears. A shuffle of feet upon the bark of a tree. A single shadow separates from the depths of the shadows before them, scrambling down towards them. The newcomer swings down from a branch and drops down to the snow below, clutching what appears to be a rifle in one hand. Ronon's hand slips to his stunner, caressing the grip and feeling the reassuring weight of the weapon at his side as the stranger draws close, close enough for the features of a normal, average human male begins to come into focus. Ronon does not trust strangers, particularly not well-armed strangers that jump out of dark trees in the middle of Wraith infested territory.

Something does not feel right. When the stranger smiles as he steps up to the bulky horse, a strange, crooked twist of his features, Ronon's heart thumps heavily in his chest, lurching abruptly. However, the man simply reaches up to shake McKay's hand warmly, grinning from ear to ear with a sickly, toothy leer.

"C'mon. She's been waitin' for you," the stranger greets.

McKay says nothing but gives a quick nod of his head and guides the horse on through the woods, while Ronon's stomach clenches and twists. Something is wrong, horribly wrong. Klutch, as in the supposed bloodthirsty traitor to her species, is _waiting _for McKay, meaning she knows him well, meaning she is expecting him. And, somehow, it all means that McKay has seen this all coming as well. The Satedan's fingers curl about his weapon. He may not be able to trust McKay, not now, not entirely, but the stunner has never failed to disappoint.

Slowly, the woods part, revealing a tiny camp filled with scrambling people darting this way and that amid a ring of trucks and other sturdy looking vehicles. There is a sense of organized chaos. Ronon sniffs, tasting the fear on the air along with the stench of many unwashed individuals. His hairs stand on the back of his neck.

"Wait here," the stranger announces, cutting through the crowd and ambling towards one of the larger trucks.

McKay turns his head slightly, dropping his voice to a low hiss. "Remember your promise to me, Ronon."

The Satedan bites his tongue, gripping the stunner in ready hand as the stranger knocks on the door of the truck and whispers something to the occupant. The door opens slowly on cranky, creaking hinges and slowly. Ronon holds his breath as a single, elegant and slender figure eases from the truck, her face shrouded by long, flaxen locks. It is Klutch. Ronon knows that it can be no other, even before she lets out a sigh, laden with puffs of white steam and shaking against the chill of the winter night. She lifts her head, parting the flaxen locks and revealing a marble white face adorned with the tattoos of the Wraith, the same tattoos as Kylie and Willem, the mark of the _skrae_.

Ronon does not hesitate, does not question. He springs from the horse before his mind has time to process the action, drawing his stunner an aiming it squarely at the tattooed face. His finger quivers at the trigger. It is set to kill. She, however, does not move, does not react save placing her hand upon her hip and frowning at him like a chiding mother.

"Ronon," the physicist hisses through his teeth, sliding down from the horse to the downy snow below. "You swore."

"She's a worshipper."

"No, she's not," McKay snarls back harshly.

Ronon shakes his head. "They told me she's a traitor, that she turns camps over to the Wraith."

"She's not," Rodney whispers, suddenly hesitantly and softly. "She never was."

"That's not what Sulley and Amerie told me," Ronon growls back, turning his aim on Rodney now.

McKay blinks, then laughs, a wild and boisterous thing, shaking his head madly. "And you believed_ them_? Over me? Over _the _Rodney McKay?!?" He hoots now, the sound piercing the night like a hyena cackle. "Oh, puh-lease, Ronon. You're not the smartest man in two galaxies, but you're not _that _big of an idiot."

Ronon keeps his weapon aimed right in McKay's face, taking a long, defiant stride towards him. "So, tell me, McKay." He cocks his head to the side, taunting the physicist. "Because I'm kind of getting a little sick of all this shit."

McKay sighs, rolling his eyes dramatically. He eyes Ronon suspiciously for a long, tense moment. Yet, Ronon is a man of infinite patience; he always gets his quarry. He can wait until one of their bodies fails and falls to rot, and McKay is equally as stubborn, digging his heels in just as defiantly as the Satedan. McKay folds his arms across his chest, scowling and scrunching his thin, pale lips together like a petulant child have a sulk. His eyes shine with irritation, gleaming in the pale light. Time spans infinitely before Ronon in this manner, swelling and yawning into a wide, all encompassing abyss in which neither will concede.

Defiance has always been their gift, both Ronon and McKay. There are times when their stubborn streaks are the only thing which has kept either of them alive. It is a powerful thing, something which McKay has often suggested is quite akin to what he refers to as an atomic chain reaction. It only requires a tiny bit and a small nudge of encouragement to do either great wonder or terribly vast destruction.

However, McKay cares not to be wielding this, among his greatest of weapons, against an equally well armed once friend with such dire of consequences at stake. He blinks at the alarming realization, his cheeks flooding with hot blood and searing shame. This.... Ronon.... he is his friend, one of his few and only true friends in this world. And McKay? McKay has honestly done nothing but deceive him.

"I'm sorry, Ronon," McKay whispers a bit hoarse, shaking his head as he does. "It's just.... it's been a long time. You know how it is. Old habits of the hunted do die the hardest." He gives a tiny quibble of a laugh. "But you of all people would know that."

Ronon's brow knits, clumping together and furrowing. "What are you talking about?"

McKay does not answer, not at first anyway. What he does instead is quite curious. Rodney's once soft and nimble fingers, now weathered and gnarled, reach to peel away the layers of warm, woolen scarfs and undo buttons and fasteners at the top of his coat. Slowly, with fingers that tremble perhaps from the icy cold and perhaps from fear or hesitation, McKay pries away the protective clothing and exposes his chest to the peppery winter night.

"McKay...."

To Ronon's great horror, the scars that mar Rodney's pale face extend down his neck to thin at his chest. There, as a might river meeting the see, the pale pink of the scar tissue mixes and twists together with inky black markings. The night has stolen their true color, leaving them a murky, oily color, but Ronon would recognize them anywhere. He feels his arm lowering of its own accord, drifting down and taking his aim off of his friend as his muscles quiver with the surprise and electric adrenaline hum through his veins. He stares into the dark depths of those markings, into a pit so deep it could swallow a man's soul whole, into the markings of the Wraith.

"Well?" McKay asks simply, turning his head arrogantly to the side. "Believe me now?" He looks to Klutch now, his voice urgent. "We need to go."

"I know."

McKay barks harshly. "No, you don't know." He shakes his head. "Dymas is on the move, heading right to Foothold."

Klutch blanches nearly marble white in the pale light of the moon, her skin turning an icy pale in mirror of the stark, pristine snow all about them; she swears, "Shit, shit, shit!"

"What?"

Klutch spits, actually hocks a large, repulsive wad of sputum from the back of her throat with an almost distinctively masculine gesture upon such a feminine form. "We've got Wraith inbound." She looks to McKay, her features soft and concerned in a maternal grace. "I sent Kylie to warn you."

"Oh, god..."

xxxx

Sulley slowly clambers down from his position high atop Foothold. The descent is not without its due share of difficulty. The trail is treacherous, with rocks slipping beneath his feet and threatening with each and every carefully placed step to pull right out from under him. His body is strong, but not as spry as he often boasts to be after years softening behind a desk. His joints are getting older, crankier in the cold winter months now without an overpaid masseuse working the kinks out.

At the bottom, a steadily swelling commotion waits to greet him. Amerie, Eric and Jonas are among the most vocal of the arguers, Jonas going so far as to swing his arms in wild, frantic gestures. They are all there, outside and exposed, and all shouting. Sulley furrows his brow in confusion but shambles up to listen.

"Get rid of her!"

"Put her down like the filthy fucking dog she is."

"Stake her out for the Wraith!"

Sulley frowns and presses through the circle, nearly doubling over when he spies this, their most recent bone of contention lying in a rather unbecoming and bloodied heap in the middle. Kylie. She lies supine in the snow, her limbs sprawled languidly out in a tangled knot. Her sharply sculpted cheeks flush with winter's icy kiss through those awful, angular tattoos of the Wraith in red blotches. Sulley blinks in surprise; he has never seen Kylie so still, so loose and almost tranquil. It seems unnatural, considering how tense, tightly wound and vigilante the _skrae _has always remained.

"What happened?" the hunter barks.

Eric spits, actually spits on the unconscious body and drives a swift kick to her exposed and unprotected ribcage. "Bitch came back for more of us."

"Shit," Sulley swears under his breath. He jerks when the sound of engines rumbles in the distance and remembers precisely why he descended from the mount in the first place. "We've got bigger problems, though, right now."

"Like?" Jonas demands, his eyes narrowed as he cautiously surveys Kylie for any sign of waking.

"Dymas. Coming up the mountain road now."

Amerie shivers and immediately turns on her heel. She knows her place in Foothold. She will gather the others close to her, the women and the very few who can still be considered children in this world. She will take them with her, scurrying down into the dark labyrinth of the mines like mice in flight. Amerie will keep them safe. She runs through the snow, picking up her feet in high steps that send fresh aches through her bones but keep her atop the heavy drifts.

She pauses at the doors to the mine's entrance and gives one last glance to Eric and calls, "What about Kylie?"

Eric laughs, low and viciously. "What about her?"

Amerie blanches at the dark tone to his voice and swallows whatever argument might have been slowly developing in her mind. She cannot and will not argue with him. She knows from that look in his eyes that Eric is beyond reason, and, aside from that, Amerie has more important things to tend to than a bitch of a traitor like Kylie.

xxxx

A shadow stirs on the mountain. Long, crooked limbs stretch and insinuate themselves over the rock face, moving with an inhumane grace over the ridge. Long, slender fingers grip in narrow gaps and cracks, finding impossible holds where no earthly digits would normally. This is his gift, his natural, athletic grace that once held the fickle attention of a Queen and earn his rank among her most valued _skrae. _

Willem slinks down the mountain to a better vantage point, overlooking the wide, sweeping clearing before Foothold. He peers down the mount with eyes well adjusted to the dark as a stream of headlights languidly curl about the mountain, slipping between the trees and plowing through the snow with ease before piercing the clearing with unfeeling shafts of light. He scowls, for several reasons, but the _skrae _holds his position as the trucks draw to a halt and strangers climb out to be greeted by the all too familiar members of Foothold. Willem shrinks back, cautiously, letting the shadows close upon him once more.

He studies the people as they caucus below him carefully, even if he cannot hear their words. The _skrae _has never been trusted by the people of Foothold and, as such, has been wary of them in return. They are a greedy, conniving people, always ready to lay both of their pet _skrae _down as bait before the hungering Wraith, never willing to risk their own necks. Willem does not like the people of Foothold, nor does he think he will ever.

His loathing of the people of Foothold is matched perhaps only by his hatred of the Wraith and his absolute abhor in regards to these newcomers. Dymas. The name is a curse upon Willem's tongue. Dymas is a short, bird like man, with pinched, arrogant features, but he is a cruel master of these mountains and a brutal murderer in the name of what he deems right. Dymas is just as bad as the people of Foothold. He hungers with as insatiable an appetite as the Wraith, ever searching in his elusive quest for a mate, for some promise that Dymas's pathetic stab at life after Wraith will be a successful one. After all, what is victory without a female to share it with?

There is motion below him, a flurry of activity. Suddenly, a cluster of people moves from the mine entrance. Willem watches as they drag something bulky and heavy forward, tossing it carelessly before the man he recognizes as Eric. Eric gestures to the blanket shrouded form a few times, talking swiftly and eagerly, garnering a small nod from Dymas. Willem desperately wishes he could read lips but continues to watch, even as Eric crouches down and lifts the edge of the blanket, revealing his prize to a widely sneering Dymas. Willem's eyes go wide when he sees it is an unconscious Kylie that Eric is presenting so readily in trade.

It is an impossibly cruel betrayal. Willem's blood boils when Dymas shakes Eric's hand warmly, like two businessmen sealing the closure of a house. His fingernails dig into his palm in tight fists when Eric gestures quite proudly to the device at Kylie's wrist, so similar to the device on Willem's own arm and those that hang from the necks of both Klutch and Mckay, those things that shrouds each of them from the Wraith at their leisure. His eyes turn red when one of Dymas's men reaches down and scoops Kylie up, slinging her over his shoulders like nothing more valuable than a sack of potatoes, not like a human at all. Willem drinks in his own anger and bathes in the nearly volcanic heat fusing through his nerves and heart when they dump her carelessly into the back of a truck.

However, despite his outrage at this, he does nothing for now. He remains in the shadows and dark of the night, even as Dymas rides away, he and his men gloating and whooping to the wind in their seeming victory after all these long, lonely months in the mountains without a consort. He bites back his bloodlust as Jonas and Eric congratulate one another at their cunning, their quick thinking in sating Dymas for now with Kylie's flesh.

No. Now is not the time to strike. Not so openly.

But, oh, how they shall suffer for this. Each and every one of them. He promises this to himself over and over again, just as he promises himself that, in the morning light, he will pick up Dymas's trail in the fresh snow and go to her, sweep her from Dymas's terrible grip and whisper her away just as they had so long ago from the Wraith, back when the _skrae _had allies. And then, when Dymas is dead and cold and Kylie is at his side once more, Willem will come back for Foothold and all its people. He will spare them no mercy, for they had spared none of the _skrae _any mercy at all over these years, not even now.

The oath tastes so very sweet on his tongue, that Willem elects to hold it close and mouth the words again and again to the night and moon without actually saying them before descending once more.

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes: **Yes, it's a with riddled M. Night Shamalamadingdong quality twists, I know, but I've been waiting to pull both those cards for a while now. Sorry this chappie isn't so great as others, but I needed it for building up other stuff to come. So, yeah. Klutch is a guy, and both she and McKay were once _skrae _just like Kylie and Willem. Hooray? I like to think so.

By the by, if Klutch being transgender bothers or offends, just don't read. Simple as that. However, bear in mind that this fic isn't moving towards romance or slash, so, no, there will not be any epic and/or grotesquely detailed love scenes between Klutch and any of the other characters. If you really feel the need to see a dirty scene between any of the characters in this fic, I do welcome you guys to make your own spin-offs. Just drop me a line giving me the heads up if you plan to do so.

Also bear in mind that, if a character being transgender turns you off so much from this fic that you stop reading it, you may be surprised to find that there are loads of amazing, funny, witty, smart, courageous transgender people out there that you could be turning out of your life but may make awesome friends.

So, yeah, that's my PSA about open-mindedness. Hooray? Again, I like to think so. But, then again, I'm a relatively open-minded kind of gal.


	13. The Hunter's Kiss

**CALIBER - The Hunter's Kiss**

The _skrae_, Kylie, comes to awareness by a symphony strange sensations all about her. There air is cloying and stiflingly hot. Darkness enshrouds her, so deep and nearly tangible that it feels as though she has been swallowed whole by some vibrant, living thing. Her wrists feel raw and angry, bound behind her back. Something hums at her temple, vibrating through her aching skull, overwhelming even the throbbing of her brain from the blow that knocked her out. It is an engine of some kind, and, judging by the hard ground beneath her, she lies sprawled across the rear foot wells. A coarse fabric itches at her face, scratching at her, a bag over her head- how cliched and utterly unnecessary; even lost and disoriented, the _skrae _could find her way through these mountains with ease.

"I think our little friend is awake."

The _skrae _freezes stiffly. The voice is male, gruff, and distinctly not friendly. There is something akin to menace in his voice, but not entirely threatening, a perverse tone. Kylie does not appreciate what that tone might suggest. She can almost hear an ugly leer in his voice.

"Just in time."

She stiffens, her muscles tensing and straining, but there is no time for self-pity nor worry as the truck grinds to a halt. The doors to the truck groan in low tones as two strangers climb out and slam the doors. A door opens beside her with the frigid blast of icy, winter wind, savory and sweet where in cuts through the coarse weave of the sack upon her head. Hands fall upon her, grabbing her roughly by the ankles, but the _skrae _is ready for them. She tucks up and strikes out fiercely, kicking in the darkness seemingly wildly but aiming for the sounds of crunching snow behind her. However, there are too many clinging hands, and she is pulled with a rough jerk out of the foot well, landing with a heavy thud in the soft, downy snow.

A heavy weight crushes down on her, nearly squeezing the breath from her lungs as a hand runs down the length of her spine; a voice draws near to her ear, a voice she knows. "Hello, lovebird." She grits her teeth and twists, but a heavy bulk holds pins her into the ice as the man chortles. "I like fighters." There is boisterous laughter all about before that voice speaks again. "Bring her inside. Help her slip into something a little more comfortable."

"Sure thing, Dymas."

xxxx

"GET THIS CAMP BROKEN DOWN, NOW!" Klutch's bellow rings through the trees, echoing in the frozen night, cutting through the air with a razor's edge. She whips about to face McKay, her flaxen hair caught on the breeze. "Take Sheppard." Klutch's eyes narrow to slits as she turns to pack. "I'm going after Dymas."

"No."

It is a single word, a gentle denial spoken with little to no effort. Yet, it is that single, simple syllable that both startles Ronon and stops Klutch dead in her tracks and sends a chill down her spine. She tenses, visibly so, and turns slowly, fixing McKay in a deadly cold gaze.

"What?"

Rodney shakes his head tersely. "No. You're not going for Dymas."

"I'm not leaving Kylie to him," Klutch fumes in the snow, her features pinching in rage.

Rodney's face, however, is serene and tranquil as he presses with a knowing calm. "No, you're not." He waves with his hand to the camp about them. "Look around you, Klutch. Look."

The hunter turns slowly, her blue eyes taking in everything that has become her world, her mouth opening in a slight shock. All about her, her people stand, their eyes upon her expectantly. These are her people, the tired, poor, huddled, and injured that she has found scattered across the eastern mountains of Pennsylvania, people she has given a home, a purpose, a life where there was none in the wake of the cullings. They look to her with fear and trust in their eyes, trusting her cautious decision and sure planning. They are waiting for her orders.

"They need you, Klutch," Rodney insists, drawing close now. "They need you to lead them." He smirks, playing on her pride now. "You're the only person who knows these mountains the way you do." McKay looks to the Satedan and the Wraith. "What was the status of the SGC when you came through?"

"Clear," Ronon replies swiftly and surely. "We sent Carter back there to get the Gate up and running if possible."

"Carter?" Rodney's head snaps up. "She's alive?" The Satedan gives a wary nod, and the physicist grins madly from ear to ear, his head bobbing up and down convulsively and his fingers snapping wildly. "If she's already there, then we're not completely screwed. If anyone can get the Gate up, it's Carter." He reaches for Klutch, gripping her by the shoulders sharply and placing his forehead to hers. "Head for Carnivale. I'll meet you there."

"What about Dymas?" the blonde asks.

"I'll take care of Dymas."

"He's got you outnumbered and outgunned," Klutch reasons with a cold rationale.

"Not where it counts," McKay quips, tapping his temple. "Remember, smartest genius in not one but _two _galaxies - and counting. I'll think of something as soon as I catch up with them."

"And, if you don't..." the blonde's brow gathers in concern, her eyes glistening strangely in the pale light of the moon. "He'll kill you."

McKay gives a half-hearted shrug, smiling wistfully at Klutch. "He might."

"He will not have the chance," the Wraith states flatly, stepping close, almost protectively to McKay. He leans close enough to Rodney's ear to hiss with a chilling drone, "I still have needs for you that your corpse cannot serve."

"I'll go, too," Ronon pipes up swiftly.

"See? I've got an army," Rodney implores. "I'll be fine."

"And if you're not? What then?" Klutch demands hotly, bitterly.

"Then...." McKay glances over his shoulder to the Wraith and the Satedan, shaking his head solemnly. "If you don't hear from us in forty eight hours, get out of here. Take everyone and get to Cheyenne Mountain. Carter'll be there. Tell her...." He pauses, an uncertainty and heaviness to his voice before he sighs and shakes his head. "Just tell her Rodney sent you."

xxxx

Those clinging, vile, repulsive hands drag the _skrae _into an embracing, engulfing warmth, a house or building of some kind, with hard, solid floors beneath her feet. She twists and squirms a bit in their grasp, but there are too many that hold her tight. Her fight is not to escape, not while she is so vastly outnumbered and without any viable intelligence to their strengths, to their weapons. Her struggles serve purely to craft illusion, to curry a false sense of superiority and overwhelming strength in her unsavory captors.

Kylie can still hear the words of her trainers, her masters, purring into her ear with that odious vocal hiss and refined verbal palette of their kind. _"Yours is an entirely pathetic species of limited personal prowess and finite physical resources. This is a weakness and conversely a boon if properly refined."_

This trick of hers works well. The men laugh and taunt, poking at her through her tapestried clothes meant for camouflage amid the trees down to her simple underclothes of black slacks and matching shirt. They hoot and swap crude jokes between one another at her expense as they jerk her about to tie her hands up, over her head and hoist her up, dangling her limply from above.

"Ever hear of rodeo sex?" one them asks.

"Nope."

The first chuckles lewdly before explaining, "When you take your woman from behind, start going nice and slow, take her by the hair, pull her head back slightly and whisper in her ear, 'Your sister was better than you,' and try to hold on for 8 seconds!"

There is a raucous laughter after that, stemmed only when tears off the rough sack from her head "Jesus!"

Kylie blinks, her eyes rapidly adjusting to the light about her after so long under the bag. They have brought her into a large, warm log cabin, likely built years ago by someone seeking a 'rustic' retreat from urban life. A bright, cheery fire crackles and pops in the hearth, illuminating both her and the six men who circle her. She hangs from a wide, log rafter, dangling loosely as a puppet without a master, her toes barely scraping the hard wood floor.

"Would you look at that?" The surprised man holding the sack gapes, then wolf whistles and drags his finger down her cheek as the _skrae _pulls away slightly. He chuckles at her, asking his cohorts, "Just how far down you think those tattoos of hers go?"

The _skrae _is defiant even now. Her eyes glare in anger and score certain untold promises of an extremely painful and violent death to anyone who tries to place a lusting hand upon her. Kylie _dares _them to try it with her blazing, emerald eyes, with the taut and coiled tension in her muscles, in the stern and locked set of her jaw.

"All the way down, I'm bettin'," another calls.

Those paws tear away at her clothes, stripping her down to her pale skin until she is clad only in the green and blue knotted play of Wraith tattoos running from her face down her neck and chest, over her arms, and down her slender, muscled legs. They wash her down with cold, soapy water, scrubbing her until raw, laughing still as they do. She shivers and twists slightly, even still, to keep up with illusions, even as one of their hands run over her now goose-pimpled skin pulled tight over her ribcage like a Thanksgiving Turkey, groping her.

"Hey!" The shouter audibly smacks the man who is stroking her flesh so intimately. "She's Dymas's first."

The groper pouts. "Doesn't mean I can't inspect the goods first."

"Leave her," another argues. "You'll get your turn."

They exit the cabin, leaving her with the threat of Dymas, yet the _skrae _is not afraid. Kylie has stared into the absolute, perfect, and patiently waiting face of Death. She has faced the Wraith victoriously, spilling their blood and bathing in the vile, stinking black ichor. She has held the warm, clammy, still-beating heart of a Queen cradled in her tiny hands. Anything these humans can dare imagine inflicting upon the _skrae, _she knows she has endured worse, and, for those terrible misdeeds, she has exacted her own retribution.

xxxx

The aging truck fishtails and swerves dangerously down the mountain trail, kicking up the snowdrifts it plows through in white, puffy clouds. From an outside perspective, it might seem out of control, perhaps even manned by a drunkard, yet the driver behind the wheel is calm and composed beyond compare. The cumbersome vehicle lumbers swiftly down the mountain road, weaving the along the curving lane through the practiced skill of someone has driven several winters down the exact stretch of gravel drive. The engine growls in protest, straining under duress, but the truck forges onwards valiantly through the snow and ice.

Sheppard blinks open his eyes right as the truck swerves into a series of tightly controlled fishtails over a patch of ice, awoken by the sickening lurching pit in his stomach that sways with the motion. He rubs his eyes against the blur of sleep and spies out the darkened rear windows to spy the flash and gleam of something skimming along behind them. He furrows his brow until the offending shadow comes into focus as another truck, followed by what appears to be another vehicle, each illuminated only by pale shards of moonlight.

The colonel rolls over slightly, just enough to peer over his shoulder and through the windshield. Curiously, while there are no other trucks in front of this one, not even this driver has their headlights on. Sheppard's military mindset kicks into over drive, churning over the data.

"What's happening?" Sheppard croaks.

The driver gives a momentary glance over their shoulder, and, in the wintery twilight of the moon, Sheppard can see it is Klutch. Her features are set in resolve, emotionless and composed in a way that somehow unsettles Sheppard. It is the cold, distant calm of the _skrae_ that lies exposed now, without her many layers of painted make-up, the same quiet composure of Willem and Kylie.

"We're getting out of here, that's what's happening," Klutch grinds out, her voice stern.

"Why are you running?"

Klutch sighs, a solemn and soft exhalation that speaks volumes before she actually utters any words. "Wraith inbound. Raiders inbound." She shakes her head, shifting gears as she does in a fluid, elegant motion that sends the truck engine growling at the downshift. "Whole mountain's gone to hell in a hand basket."

"Where are we going?" Sheppard presses.

"Carnivale. It's a little camp about a mile, maybe mile and a quarter from here to regroup. Tomorrow night, we'll head West." She pauses, oddly somehow. "Rodney said you've got some friend out in Colorado we should head to."

"Carter," the colonel breathes. Sheppard looks about the truck and, when he spies no other occupants, blurts out, "Where are Rodney and Ronon?"

Klutch does not answer exactly, but Sheppard is certain he spies a single tear running down her cheek as she answers, "They'll meet us at Carnivale, and, then, we're getting the fuck out of here."

Suddenly, Sheppard feels rather small and useless.

xxxx

Ronon sits uncomfortably in the truck, fiddling restlessly with his stunner. The Wraith, Todd, sits behind him in a rear seat. It puts him ill at ease to have the creature at his back, yet the truck Klutch has provided them with - a "pickup" she had referred to it as - has only two front doors and a tiny cab. Ronon prefers to have a speedy exit at his side and the Wraith behind him over being cornered in the rear seat by the Wraith with no easy exit at his disposal. McKay's hasty and seeming reckless driving also has the Satedan on edge, occasionally grabbing at the dash board to kept from tumbling out of the seat.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Ronon finally asks, broaching the awkward silence between the three unlikely companions.

"About...?" Rodney gestures with a faint circular motion of his hand beside the knotted mess of puckered, raised scars that mark the side of his face.

"Yeah."

The physicist purses his lips together for a long, contemplative moment as the truck skims along over the snow before asking softly, oddly, "When you were a runner, you ran into other... normal people, right?"

The Satedan frowns. There were several times during his many years on the run from the Wraith when he had the dubious luck to chance upon other people. Sometimes, they were friendly, welcoming the lone Satedan with open arms and offering him food, shelter, and medical supplies were he in need. More often than not, though, meeting with strangers came as a grave misfortune. Often, they would spurn him, drive him out violently from their towns and villages. Occasionally, his presence would draw the Wraith down upon those hapless fools that had allowed him to linger too long. He has only bittersweet memories of the very infrequent times when nothing ill came of his presence as a runner.

"Yeah."

Rodney veers the truck off the road for a moment, bouncing along the shoulder to skirt about an abandoned four wheel drive that stands as a hulking monument to some lost driver. He clenches his teeth briefly before jerking the wheel to right the truck once more. The pick-up leap for an instant before getting traction back on the coarse gravel mountain road.

"When we got away from them, there were five of us," Rodney breathes, his voice distant and almost weary. "Kylie, Willem, Klutch, Nick, and me." He pauses just to shift gears. "Nick saw a group of hikers. He was so excited that there were people, real, _normal_, Wraith-hating people, that he just walked right out to them. There was a big commotion, but it wasn't from Nick. The people, they were shouting back and forth about him, but Nick just stood there."

The Wraith, Todd, leans forward with interest. No, of course the _skrae _would not move, nor speak out of turn. Even if this 'Nick's' thrill of discovery and will had been enough to stir the man to reveal himself and approach without turn, the strict training of the Wraith would have been too deeply ingrained in the human to shatter so easily. To the other _skrae_ and to a Wraith, surely the creature's body language would have conveyed his joy, but, to another human, between the dramatic attire and elaborate tattoo ornamentation....

"They thought he was a worshipper," McKay concludes for the Wraith in an even, solemn tone. "They shot him." The physicist draws a slight breath before continuing, stilling himself as he dredges up his training to maintain an even expression despite a raw, aching grief that the Wraith can see even if the Satedan cannot. "In the fight, we killed two of them. Willem, Kylie, Klutch and I barely escaped with out lives. After that, we survived by blending in, by adapting."

"You could have told me," Ronon rumbles from his place in a low growl.

Rodney shook his head. "No, I couldn't."

"I would not have turned on you."

McKay snorted, a haughty sort of sound. "Please. That lovely little display with Klutch aside, you were itching to pull the trigger on Kylie and Willem from the moment you met them."

"They were hunting us."

McKay's lips drew to a tight, hard line. "To protect us."

"Can you blame me?" Ronon snarled, suddenly quite defensive. "After all these secrets? All this bullshit, McKay? After..." The Satedan swallowed, the words suddenly quite sticky as toffee in his mouth. "After Sheppard?"

"You don't know what we went through, the four of us. I mean, well, you kind of do, but no." The old McKay, flustering, bumbling and socially awkward emerges in a tiny glimmer, but it is crushed just as instantly as it springs up. "I wanted to tell you and Sheppard, I really did. But I couldn't. I couldn't take that chance."

"I wouldn't have betrayed you."

"If I told you, you would have told it to the world, even if you didn't say a word. With your face, your eyes."

The Satedan blinks in earnest, taken by by McKay's accusation, however true it may be. Rodney McKay had, in the past, never been as observant as this creature seated beside him. In fact, Ronon remembers McKay well for his social blunders caused simply by being so blind as he to the subtleties of human emotion and expression in gesture, facial features, and speech pattern. It surprises the Satedan.

"I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not," the Canadian goes on. "I lied to you and to Sheppard, but I did what I had to do to protect the others." He turns for but the briefest of motions, his gaze catching Ronon's for but a split second before returning to the road. "You would have done the same for Tyre."

Ronon has no defense to that.

Fortunately, Rodney pulls the truck off the road after just a moment's awkward silence and announces, "We're close enough now."

He kills the engine and allows the thing to roll under evergreen branches laden with a heavy blanketing of snow, concealing the thing. There, the physicist climbs from the truck, moving with the quiet sure stealth of the _skrae _and gesturing by his actions and his intent for the others to do the same. It is an eerie sight to see Rodney move so gracefully and coolly, but Ronon knows now is not the time to comment. They have work to do.

xxxx

Kylie looks up her long, slender arms to McKay's device still strapped to her wrist and to the ropes above that. The knots look sturdy and secure, tied by a knowledgeable hand. She jerks at the ropes, kicking her body in the air and feeling the full weight of herself drag down upon her delicate joints. The ropes catch and dig into her skin, but do not give. She tugs and pulls again, twisting as she does, moving with the near frantic desperation of a wild animal caught in the snare. The ropes abrade at her wrists, burning them initially before cutting and tearing the flesh. Warm, sticky blood - _her _blood - soaks into the cords before seeping down her arms, first from one wrist, then the other shortly thereafter.

Kylie grits her teeth. She can do this, regardless of the damage it may cause. In truth, the more damage the better, as her wrists slick with her own blood. It helps her left hand pop loose of the restraint, and she flops in midair, her shoulder tearing and screaming in agony. She feels the muscles rend at her shoulder with a sickening pop as the joint dislocates. The _skrae_ holds her tongue despite the searing sensation cutting down the muscles and tendons running the length of her right arm.

The _skrae'_s pale, bare foot catches on the floor, offering a tiny measure of purchase. She delights at this, curling her toes and digging in as much as possible against the smooth, polished hardwood of the floor beneath her. It is not much, but it helps enough for her to pry her left hand free. Kylie tumbles to the ground as silently as possible, curling protectively and defensively about her dislocated right arm before stepping on her hand and twisting, contorting her body to shift the joint back into place. The _skrae _holds her breath, willing the pain to subside as she did so many times before for her Wraith masters.

However, before she can move to bolt or even find some sort of a weapon, the door to the cabin swings open with a sickly, sinister creak. The _skrae _looks up from where she is crouched just in time to see a booted heel flying through the air before it crashes into her jaw with such force that it splits her lip and sends her sprawling. Kylie lands and rolls aside, but a hand shoots out for her, snatching the _skrae _by a tuft of her ebony hair and jerking her up to her knees. Now, the girl fights in earnest, thrashing against the hold with all her might, but the man just backhands her hard, so hard it sends stars flickering and bursting across her vision, stunning her.

"Well, well, well.... What do we have here?"

The _skrae _blinks and shakes her head despite the grip on her hair, shuffling loose the disorientation to spy the man who holds her still. Dymas. He is a strong, build man, taller than Ronon and wider even. There have been suspicions among survivors that Dymas had been a convict or biker in that distant, _other _life before the Wraith, judging by his extensive tattooing of skulls and scantly clad women. His features are angular and pointed, which, with his nearly black eyes, given him an oddly hawk-like impression. He is a man of cruelty, who measures the ends as vastly more important than the means. Dymas sneers in Kylie's face, drawing so near that she can smell the musk of him and the stale scent of cigarettes on his breath, wherever he has managed to find such a rare and treasured commodity in this day.

"I haven't seen a girl in years, let alone such a fine looking lady as you," Dymas croons in a sickly smug voice.

The _skrae _does not move, does not flinch, her eyes glaring daggers into the man who holds her. She needs not say any word. She spies her own rage reflected in his eyes, masked by the pristine veneer of a pale, disciplined face.

"Relax. You should feel honored. You're going to be the mother of a whole new world." She jerks vainly in his grasp, but he holds her tight, his lips curling into a suggestive leer. "A like a bitch that fights. Makes it a challenge, makes it more fun."

The _skrae _jerks in his hold, but Dymas has her in too sure of a grip. He shakes her fight easily, pouncing upon her as a cat and pinning her to the ground. The _skrae _writhes beneath him, but Dymas throws her to the ground, striking her head against the hardwood right upon the back of her skull. Her vision greys for a moment before coming into focus as Dymas snatches her by the wrists and holds the mangled joints over her head. He leans back and licks his lips as his gaze roves over her, surveying her long, elegant build.

"I've waited... God.... so long for this."

Dymas leans in to put his lips upon her, and Kylie lashes out. The girl twists beneath him, using his hold upon her wrists to pop her right arm back into socket. She rears back just an inch with her head and hurls it forward, slamming into him. Dymas flops back slightly, just enough for Kylie to lean up and snap at him with her teeth. It is an unbecoming and dishonorable tactic, but the _skrae _are not a class noted for obeying any sort of human social decorum in battle. Her teeth catch on his ear, and she clamps down until coppery blood splashes over her tongue.

Dymas howls and smacks her away with animalistic ferocity, his hands reaching to his ear to stem the bleeding as he shouts, "YOU BITCH!"

Kylie bolts for the door. There is no sense in trying to conceal her escape attempt now with Dymas shouting. She snatches her clothes in a balled fist and runs. If she is lucky, she will be able to disappear into the tree line, redress, and circle back over them.

However, luck is not with Kylie this night, as Dymas has one of his burliest men posted as guards just outside the door. He turns to her, his expressions plastered with with a toothy grin, his mouth hanging open in intent to share some paltry joke as to Dymas's sexual prowess. Upon seeing this pale, naked, tattooed creature, however, his face falls entirely. The _skrae _reacts, tossing her clothes up in the air and at him before the hulking guard can even process what has happened. The man jumps in fright, the momentary pause enough to for her to slip past before he reaches for her.

Fingertips brush at the _skrae_'s arm, and she acts without thought. The _skrae _whips about, her hands snaking through the air to curl about one of the man's head. She jerks her hands tightly in opposite directions and is rewarded with an almost cheery snap. She looses her grip enough for him to slip from her hold.

As he falls, the _skrae _deftly relieves the guard of his firearm, an aging pistol. Klutch has taught her kin well in the art of guns and ammunition, and a swift test of the heft of the pistol reveals that it is empty and useless. There had been a time, long ago, when the thousands of guns and rifles that litter America were filled with bullets, just lying about and waiting for someone to just pick them up like forgotten toys. With the exception of a few scant collections maintained either by skilled hunters of foragers, no more. Now, guns and pistols are often the subject of threat and intimidation, and, unfortunately for the _skrae_, this one is the same.

No matter. The _skrae _whips about the pistol in her left hand and holds the butt out, ready to swing it as a cudgel. Dymas's screams have already alerted the rest of his camp to come scrambling to his air, and this, the only weapon she has, shall have to suffice. Their footfalls thunder in Kylie's ears behind her, yet she waits until they are close to swing about. The first man that reaches her falls swiftly to a crushing blow from the pistol butt.

Her luck does not last. The men overpower her and leap upon Kylie, knocking her to the ground before circling her. A heavy foot collides sharply with her ribs, kicking the breath right out from her lungs and sending her coughing violently as she curls up. Another blow throws the girl to her back, as the men continue to circle and taunt her, striking out at their fallen, cornered prey. Yet, the _skrae _knows they will not kill her. They will beat her within an inch of her life, yes, but they will not end it. They will not when they so incorrectly assume she is the last living female of their species available for them to bed.

A mad grin spreads across Kylie's features, a toothy, diabolical expression that even gives pause to the men who abuse her so. "What's so fuckin' funny, then?"

The _skrae _does not answer with any words. Instead, she slowly raises up her wrist, the one that bears the device McKay has made for her. The men scramble, diving for her wrist, obviously briefed by someone to the thing's fucntion. She grins, deliriously now. It has been so long since she has smiled that it actually hurts, aching at muscles ill used to such work. She brings her wrist down hard upon the device, smashing it soundly before anyone can stop her. The light on the display flickers for a brief, defiant instant as though a shuddering final breath, then fades to a deathly black.

A second later, a punch to her head steals the light from her, but it is too late anyway.

xxxx

Rodney and the Wraith lead the way through the snowy forests, covering ground easily and silently. It surprises Ronon how swiftly and calmly McKay can move now, smoothly and lightly as though unburdened by his previous occupation as _skrae_. His footfalls are nearly soundless, yet long and sure. His breaths are even and composed, a Rodney McKay Ronon has never seen. No. This is the _skrae_ lurking beneath the scars, beneath the mask of a hauntingly familiar face.

Yet, perhaps what is most unsettling to the scene is how easily, how simply the _skrae _and the Wraith fall into easy stride with one another. They move in silence, yet communicate through subtle gesture invisible to Ronon's studious gaze. An unspoken language flourishes between them where once Rodney's nervous babbling had taken root.

In his heart of hearts, Ronon wants quite desperately to be sickened by this display. He should be. Rodney behaves and moves now with the precision and composure of the _skrae_, the faithful worshippers and performing pets of the Wraith. The physicist has turned to those vile creatures and bowed to their whim.

However, in both his heart and mind, Ronon can only feel a softness for Rodney, a pity so deep and encompassing that it nearly swallows the Satedan whole. The Wraith have butchered and adulterated McKay beyond recognition of the man he once was, beyond any sense of repair.

In time, both McKay and the Wraith pause in the night, standing stiffly and stilly in the frozen winter air. Neither dares move a muscle; neither utters even a word. There is only the quiet, pristine calm of the mountain, ancient, timeless, and nearly oppressive. The silence of a dead world roars and howls in Ronon's ears with a rush of flushed blood. Ronon is not accustomed to being the one left in uncertainty; it is a sensation he does not appreciate in the slightest.

The Satedan breaks the stillness of the night to ask, "What is it?"

Rodney shushes Ronon with a curt quirk of his hand. Ronon is equally ill adjusted to being silenced by his own friend, a man he had often urged to silence in the past. The physicist hardly moves aside from that, waiting instead as the Wraith lifts his nose to the air to scent and taste the night about them.

"A large collection of your species," the Wraith intones flatly. He sniffs the air again, studying the scents carefully. "Many adult males."

"Dymas's camp," Rodney snarls.

The Wraith turns his honey colored eyes to the physicist. "There is more." He cocks his head to the side to better catch the sound. "There are several darts and a single hive on approach. Fast."

Rodney and the Wraith exchange an odd look, but Ronon merely rolls his eyes and sighs, "Then, we'll just have to be _faster_."

xxxx

Sheppard wakes as the truck grinds to a halt and Klutch kills the engine. He jumps up, his body throbbing at the sudden motion. He glances wildly about, a distant part of his mind half-expecting the abrupt stop to be caused by some unknown foe. However, Klutch's expression is one of calm, replete with a faint curl of her pale, pink lips, loosing the tightly bound tension in Sheppard's muscles.

He rolls over just enough onto his better side to peer through the windshield and into the dark of night. Shadows tower about them, tall and in unnatural shapes, looming over them in elegant curlicues and draped swags. He furrowed his brow and opens his eyes wider, spying darkened colors there that may have once, under the sun, been crisp, gaudy hues. And, directly in front of them, is a sight that makes Sheppard chuckle aloud. A great, wide, hoop adorned with fanciful, bulbous carriages in vivid color washed out by the darkness about them.

"A ferris wheel?" he whispers almost hesitantly. "What is this place?"

"Carnivale. The Wraith get confused between our stuff and the carnival's stuff," Klutch breaths with a careful relief before turning, a wild grin spread across her face as she shrugs sheepishly. "What can I say? I'm not exactly creative with naming camps."

"I'll say."

Sheppard strains to see better, and, in doing so, pulls too hard upon his butchered left leg. He winces and reflexively grips at his thigh, just above the grotesque stump. Klutch is at his side in a flash, her hands tender and maternal as she gently manipulates him to lie back. Her fingertips brush over his forehead.

"Shh," she coos until his pain subsides. "You alright?"

"Yeah."

Klutch smiles, wearily almost. "Get some rest. It's been a long day."

But Sheppard cannot rest so easily. There is something to Klutch's expression as she climbs down from the truck, something subtle and lurking beneath her calm veneer that unsettles him. She is nervous, underneath it all, but she is hiding it well.

xxxx

Dymas's camp is a relatively impressive enclave in the mountains, yet it is not entirely of his own design. Ronon can tell. The encampment is a small cluster of miniature cabins and tents wreathed about a tiny lake and clumped in a corner. Each of the squat, little, carbon-copy buildings with their rotting, grey roofs bears a yellow placard with strange, angular shapes upon it; two red stripes like an x above a black triangle. They are marked "KOA KAMPGROUNDS." Rodney had spent one dismal summer vacation at a KOA Kampground before his parents learned their lesson about Rodney McKay and camping.

He gestures behind him to the Satedan followed hot upon his heels for silence and ease in his steps. It is a strange sensation to feel the need to shush Ronin of all people, but McKay cannot help it. Ronin is breathing so hard and so heavily that it thunders painfully in McKay's ears, slamming and pounding as waves upon the sea. Each step of Ronin's crunches deafeningly in the thick snow, sending shivers down McKay's spine. He wonders absently in the dark corners of his mind if Ronin has always been this loud or if it is just his training that precludes such sounds.

The Wraith, however, slips impossibly soundlessly through the snow alongside McKay, requiring no admonishing. There is something sickly comforting to the predictable stealth of a predator such as the Wraith. It is one trifling thing that McKay does not have to worry himself over.

The three swoop to a low drift across the grounds, hunkering down in the frigid snow to peer just over the crest and survey the camp. Dymas's group is organized and disciplined in a way that constantly baffles McKay granted how random and violent they can act. Dymas has amassed a guerilla army, large enough that it takes McKay's breath away to see all those men for the first time together. Each quaint little cottage seems to bunk several men, and, beyond that, there are lines of tents and trucks that all seem occupied by those seeking shelter from the cutting winter cold. It is somehow fortunate for them, then, that it is so very frigid that night, for only a few of Dymas's men are out and about on guard.

McKay licks his lips and continues to scan the campgrounds for any sign for any sign of Kylie. There is, sadly, nothing. McKay does not let this worry him as much as he might have in another lifetime. Kylie is here. They need only find her the hard way.

He gestures to Ronon with a flick of his wrist for the Satedan to circle to the left, while he and the Wraith circle to the right, however, as he does, the Wraith turns his head to something only he can hear, gathering a distant, meaty thrum meets his keen ears. The Wraith. They are almost on top of them, perhaps a few minutes away. Todd cocks a brow, and, incredibly, a smirk of utter delight and enjoyment spreads across those dry, thin lips of the Wraith's.

Neither of the humans needs any explanation. Ronin rolls his eyes but says nothing. They have not the time to comment nor argue, not with the Wraith inbound.

McKay darts quick glances to Ronon and the Wraith as he moves effortlessly through the snow, as sleekly and elegantly as the Wraith. He should. He only spent months perfecting these cool, graceful and barely audible motions so demanded and coveted by his Wraith masters. He had suffered greatly for his failures to move seemingly without effort and absolute in soundlessness; he still bears the scars from those lessons, hidden beneath his heavy, winter clothes.

McKay still remembers the first time. He had not known Kylie, Klutch or Willem then, not truly. Then, they had still been strangers, huddled, shivering, terrified strangers. He had tried to protect Kylie, and, oh, how he had payed dearly for that mistake. Yet, it had been worth it in the end, even now.

The first two cabins yield nothing, but, as he draws near to the third, a familiar voice thunders in the night, "You little bitch!"

McKay freezes in place. Dymas. He licks his lips. He is close now, very close. McKay glances to the side, catching sight of Ronon. The Satedan meets his gaze even from afar across the cabins nearly at the other side of the camp, hunkering down in the snow as a skulking wolf. McKay narrows his gaze and points to the cabin ahead of him. Ronon simply dips his head in understanding.

"Did you really think we were just going to let you get away after what you did?" Dymas rages at the top of his lungs.

The walls of the quaint little camping cabin shudder and vibrate beside McKay's ear as Dymas bellows. The sound is followed by a sickly, meaty thump that is unmistakable in nature. It is the sound of a fist upon soft, supple flesh. It is the sound of a solidly delivered blow, a punch. Judging by the "bitch" comment, it is likely the recipient of such violence is none other than Kylie. McKay's blood boils, but he stills himself. McKay knows now from the rough tutelage of the Wraith that the sort of unbridled and undirected passion and rage that Dymas is currently venting will serve for little to no productive result, no matter how McKay wishes he could exact such vengeance upon Dymas for laying even a finger upon Kylie.

McKay squeezes his fist and squelches his emotions in favor of action. He sidesteps about the corner of the cabin to a low window. The plastic is fogged heavily from the heat of bodies inside the cramped space inside, and the shades are drawn. However, there is a tiny sliver of a crack for the physicist to view through. Sure enough, Dymas is there with his back to the window and Kylie as well. McKay's fellow _skrae _dangles from a rafter overhead, strung up and stripped bare to Dymas's mercy. Bruises dapple her pale skin, weaving with the blue and green ornamentation of the Wraith, yet her emerald eyes are still and clear even as Dymas delivers another driving punch, splitting her lip. Kylie lifts her head slowly in the same, stubborn defiance as she faced her Queen with in the past. Dymas trembles in rage, but Kylie stares on, those green eyes boring into her captor in a way that brings a faint smile to McKay's ruined face.

Dymas sighs and bites back his anger. "I'm sorry."

There is nothing apologetic about the statement. McKay grips the weathered and water swollen window frame tightly, feeling wood give beneath his fingers. Dymas is up to something; he always is. There is something both diabolically calculating and insidiously insane to Dymas; it is how he has amassed so many to his fold. Dymas draws near to her, taking her by the chin in one of his big hands. There is something perverse about him standing so close to her, something that unsettles McKay. His heart stirs with a protective distaste, as though Kylie were his own sister.

"I've been too forward." Dymas grins from ear to ear, touching her arms tenderly with fingers that McKay wants nothing more than to lop off at the knuckles one by one. "A _bride _should be blushing and coy on her wedding night."

A dart whines overhead.

A shout pierces the night from one of Dymas's men, "WRAITH!"

"Fuck," Dymas swears at the interruption, more of a spat profanity than anything else.

McKay flinches but does not move from his spot while Dymas's men scramble as the dart reels overhead in long, sweeping, elegant turns with flashing, colored lights dancing beneath the sleek, trim hull. It is an advance scout, nothing more and nothing less, equipped with only a simple culling beam intended for minor, small target hunting McKay notes from a quick glance. There is little McKay can do about this lone craft, not when his mind is too focused on the battalion and hive that are to follow closely behind to ravage this camp.

McKay glances to his right, to the Wraith. Todd dips his head ever so slightly in understated approval of the caution to McKay and the lack of reaction in regard to the scout. It feels odd to sense such a sentiment from someone McKay so often considered a worthy opponent and adversary to his own keen intellect.

"SONOVA-"!"

The cut-off swear jolts McKay's attention to the left, back to Ronon, spying the trouble. One of Dymas's men lies in a crumple, twitching heap, his head twisted about at an unnatural and ugly angle, nothing more than ruined meat. The Satedan stands tall in the snow, looming tall over his fallen enemy, breathing the deep, controlled breaths of restraint. His eyes are dark and shaded to McKay even under the blinking, twittering lights of a second dart appearing in the sky, but he can sense the distaste in Ronon from the simple tension to his once friend. The Satedan is uncomfortable with this ignoble kill. McKay wants to smile, truly does; it means that Ronon is still human while he... he is something entirely different now.

"INTRUDERS!" Another stranger shouts, rounding the corner behind Ronon and jumping the Satedan.

McKay grits his teeth as Ronon fights the newcomer. Their presence had gone unnoticed for a long while, perhaps too long. In time, Dymas's men would have noticed them. McKay had only hoped it would be after they found their prize, and certainly well before any more darts appeared. As is, three circle overhead even now.

Tood hunches back, recoiling into the shadows as one of Dymas's men race towards him, firing away blindly into the dark. "WRAITH! WE'VE GOT WRAITH!"

Dymas chuckles as his bound and unwilling bride, drawing McKay's attention back to the cabin as he teases, "Wait for me, Turtledove."

McKay cannot hold himself. He draws a deep breath, the muscles of his legs contracting tightly like coiled springs, ready to pounce. His fingers brush the cool metal trigger of the blade in his hand - one of Klutch's personal weapons bequeathed to him with the truck she has lent him - with an intimate caress. He narrows his eyes, shielding his sight from the bright flash of a culling beam cutting through the dark of the winter night. The door creaks open toward McKay on ancient hinges crying out for oiling, and McKay moves without thought, without remorse nor regard. He slips through the snow with a cool, feline grace, his feet dancing across the ice beneath the blanket of white powder.

Dymas takes a single step through the threshold, never aware of the danger rocketing towards him until the last moment when McKay is nearly upon him. His eyes go saucer wide at the sight of the dark silhouette lumbering to him. Yet, at the last second, Dymas steps back, just outside of McKay's reach.

The physicist presses forward upon Dymas as the raider continues to dodge and tuck just out of the way, moving on nimble legs. There had been rumors, it is true, of Dymas's history. Some say that he was a boxer or one of those extreme cage fighters ages ago, living the high life in Vegas before the Wraith came. McKay would believe it at how easily Dymas moves, how surely he sinks his weight low on bent knee.

The raider sneers and punches out at McKay, yet the physicist is just as quick. He dances upon the snow, moving lightly and easily with a cold, dispassionate grace. The Wraith are keen masters, demanding the utmost of excellence in their precious _skrae_. Their lessons have not left Rodney, hardwired into him now. He moves without thought, skimming over the snow, slipping back and away from Dymas, baiting him out into the night. He is a viper, coiled and ready to strike as Dymas thunders to him.

Dymas swings out as one of his men charge from the night to McKay. He is a bull, all horn and muscle, but little finesse. McKay easily slips away from each of his blows.

"DYMAS!"

McKay spins about on a dime at the sound, that blackened blade of Klutch's cutting through the night and the man who would have dared leapt upon him. A scream issues forth, but it is lost amid the din of so many other shrieks as the Wraith bear down upon the camp. The face of his victim contorts in an ugly grimace of death, but it is just another corpse to McKay, nothing more, and nothing less.

Dymas takes the momentary distraction to leap even as McKay swings back to him, still carried by his own inertia. Dymas is strong, far stronger than McKay ever thought, latching his arms about the physicist. He squeezes like a python, forcing the air from McKay's lungs with a strangled cough. Dymas leans back. He is taller than McKay, easily by a foot. McKay kicks his feet as they lift from the ground, struggling for purchase, but Dymas has him too tight.

McKay leans forward for but a moment before jerking his head back. Stars flash through his vision as his skull connects with Dymas's. A distant part of his mind instantly calculates exactly how many brain cells he has likely obliterated with the blow but files that information for later when Dymas's grip looses about him enough for McKay to wriggle free.

"Sonovabitch."

Dymas charges like a football player, hanging his head and tucking his head down. McKay's feet slip in the snow as Dymas comes for him. Dymas collides sharply with McKay, his shoulder cracking soundly against the physicist's ribs with such force that it steals McKay's breath away. The two tumble to the ground in a tousled pile of long, muscled limbs scrambling to both break from one another and to pounce again. Dymas pushes him down and into the snow, tackling him and pinning him to the ground.

McKay clenches his teeth and jerks, throwing Dymas with a quick twist of his body. The raider flops to the side, foundering in the snow and flailing out for his quarry. Yet McKay is already moving, already on his feet and bouncing easily away.

Dymas jumps to his feet, but McKay slashes with the blade. The knife slices into Dymas, cleaving through the flesh and cartilage of the raider's neck with an appalling ease, cutting a gash shallow enough to not instantly kill but deep enough to ensure that the raider will die a slow, painful and drawn out death from exsanguination. It is an unclean and savage kill. Dymas chokes with a macabre bumbling sound, his adam's apple bobbing about the grotesque wound, pumping viscous blood through the wound.

Dymas takes a hobbled, half-step forward into the frigid winter night before stumbling forward and collapsing to his knees before the _skrae_. McKay glares intently into Dymas's eyes with an unflinching coldness. He wants Dymas's last sight in this world to be _him, _holding the blade stained with the raider's own, crimson blood. He wants the raider to know precisely who has killed him.

McKay waits for but a second, long enough for Dymas to recognize him before stepping about him and into the warm cabin. Kylie lifts her head to him, but her eyes cloud. The _skrae _are not expressive creatures by nature, a result of impeccable training, but McKay can read the shock and horror written upon her eyes. Kylie is.... not happy that they are here to rescue her? She is... angry? It seems impossible, but Rodney cannot deny the evidence so plainly before him.

McKay moves quickly, cutting her loose, throwing a blanket about her naked form, and announcing, "You can bitch about it later. Let's go!"

McKay grabs her by the wrist, pulling her out into the snow amid a sea of shining culling beams, but Kylie digs her heels in defiantly. She bucks against his hold, shaking her head. Rodney jerks at her arm, tugging, but Kylie pulls back, tossing her head. McKay furrows his brow. Something is wrong, horribly so if it has Kylie so unsettled, but the physicist cannot see what.

"RODNEY!"

McKay whips about just in time to see Ronon swallowed up by a culling beam with a flash of white light. "RONON! NO!" However, that beam turns against them, and he has no choice but to run, pulling at Kylie as he growls, "COME ON!"

Yet she still resists. The girl pulls back, rearing against his hold, dragging against him, even as the white beam bears down upon them.

"KYLIE! WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!" McKay shouts.

Those emerald eyes focus upon him sadly.

"I'm sorry."

It is such a soft utterance of apology that Rodney is almost sure he had imagined it amid the chaos of so many screams. A frail little whisper in the night. It has been so long since Rodney has heard Kylie's voice that he has forgotten what it sounds like. McKay freezes at the sound.

As the culling beam rushes towards them, Kylie turns her wrist, and Rodney sees now what she has been trying to tell him. The device on her arm that has been secreting her for so long against the Wraith, the only thing hiding her is ruined and damaged beyond repair. The face is clearly cracked and smashed in by some strong blow, and, now, Rodney understands. She has known the Wraith were coming.

"Kylie...." McKay breaths.

The culling beam sweeps over them with an electric kiss, and, then, there is nothing, absolute and serene void.

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**AUTHOR'S NOTES : **I had a long, drawn out series of notes here intended to resolve some of things pointed out by readers in the reviews, but, after a lovely winter holiday, I feel this space is better left to wish all you out there still following this fic a happy, safe, healthy, and prosperous new year in all your endeavors!


	14. The High Cost of Living

**CALIBER – The High Cost of Living**

There is a sickly tension to the air of Carnivale, a faint sort of nerve radiating through the people, running down their spines and twisting into their hearts with all the precision of a dull knife, leaving a solemn ache in its wake. It slips through their nerves, sinking down and into them before seeping out of their pores with an awful stink. It is fear, palpable and cloying, pure and distilled by so many years amid the Wraith threat that holds them so ruthlessly.

Klutch's people turn their eyes skyward and watch with nervous anticipation through the long, cold winter night, constantly scanning the darkened sky for any sign of the Wraith. They keep their silence, shifting uncomfortable glances to one another as they huddle together for warmth amid the tattered relics of forgotten revelry and frivolous abandon. They cannot chance any outdoor fires while so precariously exposed with the possibility of the Wraith in the area for any length of time.

Even Klutch dares glance at the sky cautiously each time she slips between the rusted out hulks of carnival amusements and rides. She does not like the uncertainty to this, the nagging worry; she would prefer to have all of her people accounted for. McKay and the others should have been back hours ago, and, yet, her scouts have turned up nothing, not a trace, not a single scrap of evidence of their impeding return.

The others murmur rumors as though Klutch cannot hear them. She allows this to persist for as long as it does not damage morale; rumors and gossip suggest a normality to her people that they so desperately need in these trying times. They whisper that McKay has simply lost his path in the snow, but Klutch knows better than to suspect that. McKay keeps the trails and roads to each and every one of Klutch's camps locked in his vast, eidetic memory. McKay would not so simply lose his way, nor would he tarry for any reason unless completely unavoidable. No, this is no simple lapse of direction; this is something decidedly unkind that Klutch is unsure she is entirely prepared to face, even though she knows she must on this very night, this very hour.

She shivers, turns to one of the buildings, and lifts a tattered, stained scrap of fabric adorned with bats and skulls enough to slip inside. This was once a haunted house ride, but now it serves as a safe haven for her kin. There, she finds Zeke stoking the dying coals of a campfire back to life with a shower of crisp, cheery sparks. The fire hisses and spits in protest under his ministrations but crackles back to life as Zeke prods at the logs. He nods in humble greeting as she approaches and stands to greet her, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"About that time?" Zeke inquires softly, hesitantly.

Klutch nods and looks down. "Been that time for a while." She sighs heavily, shaking her head. "Break down camp. We're moving out."

"Where to?" he asks with a subtle tease to his tone; he knows there is no safe place for them, not anymore.

Klutch purses her lips together, chewing on the inside of her cheek for a moment as she thinks. "Rodney said that I should lead you guys to Colorado, to Cheyenne Mountain if anything happened to him. You guys start out West. I'm going to head down the mountain, see if I can't find McKay and the others."

"What about Sheppard?" Zeke asks in guarded tone.

"That's what I came to talk to you about." Klutch rubs the back of her slender neck, massaging the tension from those long, lean muscles to her shoulders. "Can you take him?"

Zeke nods. "Of course."

She smiles and gives a tiny bob of her head. "You spread the word and start packing. I'll get him dressed."

Klutch and Zeke part ways there. She can trust him to know he will do what she has asked of him without further instruction. She slips from the haunted house and strides down to a wide, brightly colored tent where the trucks are clumped together, a tent where there had likely been concessions sold, judging from the scent of grease and fried food that lingers even now. She eases the door open to her truck and climbs into the seat in silence, careful not to jar or wake Sheppard.

He has slept much these days in her camp, and, yet, Klutch knows he needs more. His abused and ruined body is in need of the rest to heal and repair what it may. It requires the energy reserves necessary to fight back any lingering elements of the infection that forced McKay's hand to take the leg. To her eyes, though, he looks peaceful at the moment, tranquil and at ease. She does not wish to wake him, not yet, but she must.

Klutch reaches a hand between the seats and squeezes his shoulder tenderly; Sheppard jerks away, gasping, "What…?"

She waits for him to orient himself and face her before breathing, "Time to go."

"Where?"

"Anywhere but here." Klutch gives a small shrug. "McKay said Colorado was the place to go."

He nods slowly and solemnly, clearly turning the thought over in his mind. His eyes seem distant and glossed as he thinks. Klutch warms slightly; he is pained by this. Sheppard is a hero, beneath it all. It is not in his nature to give up so easily, and, as such, it is a cruel and cutting blow against him to concede defeat and retreat.

"You're going to ride with Zeke this time," Klutch goes on, toying with a frayed hem on her coat. "He'll take good care of you."

"What about you?" he asks in a voice but a shade louder than a whisper.

Klutch draws a deep breath. "I'm going to see if I can find McKay."

"No," he breathes, turning to her and gasping in pain as he accidentally pulls his ruined leg. "You can't go after them." He grabs her by the upper arm so swiftly that it startles her, and he squeezes, digging his nails into her flesh as though he could honestly hold her before swallowing hard and saying, "I'll go."

"No."

"I'm going," Sheppard insists.

"No," she states once more, firmly this time.

"You can't stop me."

Klutch simply shakes his grip loose and asks, almost disjointedly, "It must be tough, isn't it?"

"What is?" Sheppard asks in a rough tone, adjusting himself to a more comfortable position that puts less stress upon his mangled limb and also levels a cold stare upon her.

She glares back, equally defiant. "Being a lightning bolt from god."

"What?" he blinks, taken back by her statement.

Klutch folds her arms across her chest. "That's what you are to these people. You're the closest thing they've had to hope after listening to stories about you for _years_. You're a hero to these people. Never leave people behind. Never back down." She jabs a finger in the air towards him. "That's _you_, and you're all they've had to believe in. And, now, those dreams are coming true." She lets out a crazed, manic sort of chortle and explains swiftly, "Ronon told us about Carter, about how there's some way of getting off this rock." Her eyes narrow. "And you're going to throw that all away on them? Crush their dreams and kill their hope? Because, if you go and get yourself killed – which I'm fairly fucking certain you will – that's _exactly _what you'll be doing."

"And if I don't go, what the fuck kind of a hero would I be to them if I left my friends to die? Huh? Did you ever think about that?" Sheppard fumes, barking in Klutch's face before sighing and shaking his head. "I'm not asking for your approval. Just a truck in decent enough shape to get down the mountains with a full tank of gas and some directions."

"And let you get yourself killed?" Klutch asks incredulously, letting out a haughty laugh. "What kind of a shitty person do you think I am?" At Sheppard's furrowed brow, Klutch shakes her head. "Be smart now. How are you supposed to work a clutch with one leg?"

"So give me an automatic," Sheppard presses.

"We only have manual." Klutch gives another shake of her head, tousling her blonde locks. "No. If you're going to do this, you'll need a driver." She bites her lip and thinks for a moment before whispering, "Fine."

"Fine what?"

Klutch smiles softly and patronizingly. "You can come with me."

"No," Sheppard protests gently. "These people, they need you… more than they need me. You're a real hero, not some false idol like me." The colonel sighs, exhausted already from the heated exchange. "If these people have any hope, it's in Colorado, with Carter. They need you to lead them."

"I can't go," Klutch whispers hesitantly. "Not without McKay, Kylie and Willem." She runs her slender fingers through her straw colored hair, a faint ghost of a smile lingering upon her pale lips. "I don't leave people behind either. So, if you think you can keep up and stay out of trouble, you can come along."

xxxx

Suspension is, perhaps, the cruelest torture of them all, likely due to how innocuous it may seem upon initial inspection. There is little physical damage done directly unless the subject is improperly bound, as, as such, the worst initial pain is that of strained muscles and joints of the arms and shoulders and the psychological damage of knowing there is little that the subject can do to escape their unsavory predicament, a worsening welt as time goes on. Many subjects will then go so far as to twist, writhe and otherwise struggle in their attempts to pry their wrists free of their bonds, which, if the individual inflicting the session is worth their salt, are entirely futile. Depending on the particular type of bonds, the damage incurred from that could range from nothing so serious as minor friction burns and abrasions to serious lacerations. As such, the actual act of suspending a subject is the act of subjecting the individual to simply extreme discomfort, muscle cramps, exhaustion, and, perhaps, humiliation depending upon the intended application of the act.

Suspension, however, yields a far more sinister result and becomes the more refined art of torture and death when applied over a significant time period. As the body is held aloft by the arms, it places strain directly upon the intercostal muscles, those muscles running between the ribs and forming the chest wall, and, thusly, the chest is held in a state of inhalation that greatly hinders respiration. As the suspension continues, the muscles become more fatigued, cramping and contracting until respiration is an agonizing and tiring effort resulting in but shallow, gasping breaths. Only if the subject is able to lift the body upwards and reduce the strain upon the intercostals and diaphragm are any worthwhile breaths truly taken. In time, though, as exhaustion further sets in, even these small attempts become increasingly difficult, and the subject slowly asphyxiates, generally within a few days, still suspended as a display to any further offenders.

Rodney McKay knows all of this quite well as he hangs in the dim, purple blue haze of the Wraith alcoves, held aloft by warm, sweated coils of organic structure that reek of rot. He has only been hanging for perhaps a day, by his estimates, just long enough to tire and ache incredibly but no more, no lasting damage. As he forces himself upright once more, licking his lips and savoring another gulp of air, sticky and clammy in the alcoves, McKay muses idly for perhaps the hundredth time on how odd it seemed that even creatures from so far as Pegasus could recognize both the ease and efficacy of suspension as both a means of imprisoning and punishing granted the minimal labor and resources expended to yield maximum results of discomfort.

He has been in this predicament countless times before for various infractions against his once masters, the Wraith. McKay understands, somewhere beneath the pain, with his clinical mind; not only is it efficient, it does not immediately nullify the fragile life that the Wraith sup upon so greedily. In the case of the _skrae_, it left them without so much as a mark while still driving the point of the punishment home for whatever the transgression. McKay smirks to himself deliriously; as if his near boundless spite and sarcasm could ever be curtailed so simply by hanging him for a few days from his wrists. Better and more tenacious creatures have tried and failed miserably in any similar endeavors.

His fellow _skrae_, Kylie, hangs to his right. McKay occasionally darts concerned yet restrained glances in her direction, cautious to ensure that she does not see. The Wraith have not seen fit to give her anything to clothe herself with save the tapestry of bruises and cuts that delineate Dymas's cruelty, the blue and green tattoos of her training, and the living tendrils of conduit that support her tiny, lithe frame. She is holding herself rather well, considering the sorry state her body is in, keeping herself still, composed, and silent. Her stare is clouded yet empty somehow, the flat, emotionless gaze the Wraith demanded of their perfect pets. She is calm and accepting in this.

To his left, Ronon is not so stoic in this matter. Every few hours, the Satedan summons the energy to struggle and fight against his bonds, jerking and wrestling with the conduits. He strains against the horrid coils of flesh and connective structure until his energy saps, hanging limply and panting for breath. His ferocity would be admirable, were it not so ill placed. The tensile strength of the cords that keep them is too great for any amount of human strength to even hope to come near to breaking them. No amount of logic will stop him; Rodney has stopped trying to argue this with the Satedan. McKay sighs; Ronon has not changed at all, not even after all these years, nor will he ever.

Across from them, dangles the Wraith, Todd. Todd was not among them when they were brought to the alcoves, yet he appeared during a lull when the physicist dozed slightly, already tired from the strain within a few hours. The Wraith has not moved, has not said a word. His head hands still, his mouth gaping open as shallow, rasped breathes escape his lips. McKay still ponders at it, even now, that this hive would instinctively treat Todd with such disdain.

A sound jerks McKay from his thoughts, a heavy and solid series of stomps heralding a march. The Wraith may be silent creatures at will, but the physicist had come to learn long ago that they are a proud race that values the psychological impact of a dramatic entrance. He bites the inside of his lips and forces himself up, just as Kylie and Ronon do, each spurned by the sound to put themselves at as little a submissive posture as possible. Even Todd lifts his head slightly, his lips cracked to a thin, pained smile as the group rounds the corner.

McKay draws a stifled gasp. It is a moderate size of elite guards among the Wraith, and, at their lead, is a scarlet haired female. A Queen! McKay shudders inwardly but hardly moves, while Ronon grits his teeth. She rounds each of them in turn, surveying her captives. They are in a secluded corner of the alcoves, away from the other pitiful wretches than moan and cry out in their agony and terror, meaning the Queen has ordered these four kept separate for a reason.

She pauses before Todd without even deigning to look at him, the tiniest of inclination of her head indicative that she is addressing him when she hisses through her teeth. "Ah, the blood traitor come back to his kin." She smiles, the haughty, crisp sort of expression befitting royalty such as she. "I have heard much of your exploits, and I am not amused." The Queen draws close to Todd now, whispering in a husky breath directly into his ear. "Death is an intimate pleasure, perhaps the only one a creature may know in their lives." She grins in macabre delight, stroking Todd's cheek and purring, "I shall see that you pay for your crimes. Your passing will be quite intimate, indeed, and long enough for you to…. enjoy its many facets, my wayward brother."

Bitter, frozen fingers of ice snake their way down McKay's nerves and coil about his spine at the sound. For a split second, he is confused by the sensation, this growing pit in his stomach. Then, the physicist places the sentiment, incredulous at his own deduction. It is concern, pure and raw, and directed at Todd. He is struck dumb by the worry but swallows it down. Todd can handle himself; McKay has Ronon and Kylie to worry about.

The Queen swivels on her heels and crosses the distance to Ronon in a heartbeat, drawing in a deep inhalation through those facial slits, tasting the air about him before breathing in a dreamy lull, "Ah, Satedan. Warrior _vitae _of superior quality." The Queen smiles greedily. "I shall enjoy drinking of you."

Ronon growls and snarls something that McKay assumes is to the effect of a profanity in Satedan, however, he is too transfixed by the Queen to notice. She draws his undivided attention by simply _existing, _tugging upon his soul. His heart stirs in conditioned response to her very presence. Every tiny nuance, every subtle shift of her body and weight consumes McKay. He holds his breath as though it were a blasphemy to behave so humanly before her. It is his training, he knows this, but it is impossible to fight. His head swims as his own body drowns his veins in adrenaline as she drifts to him.

When she finally speaks to him, her words both thrill his heart and burn his ears. "A curious capture, indeed."

Her hand moves to his chest and slams into him before McKay can even realize her intention. The contact sends white hot pain erupting through his sternum as the feeding slit bores into him with rasping teeth and lingual cartilage. In a brilliant flash, the man feels her, rifling about in his brain. He struggles to focus himself mentally and fails, leaving Rodney cruelly exposed before her, his sins laid bare before her for the Queen to sort and pick through. Foothold. Sheppard. Atlantis. The _skrae. _All of it. She lilts through his consciousness, as the passing of a fleeting yet horrible dream. And, then, just as quickly as it had begun, it is over, and the Queen is stepping away, licking her palm and the lingering traces of blood there. McKay sags forward against the cords, mentally and physically drained by the experience, no matter how momentary it may have been.

"Quite curious," the Queen murmurs as she steps away from him.

He gasps, but he can say nothing. Instead, McKay flushes impossibly, as though he has sinned against his own Queen. He hates himself for this, these small, trained reactions so perfectly engrained in him, even after all these years free in the wild. The Queen moves to Kylie next; McKay cannot stomach to watch as the Queen tastes of the young female. He looks away, swallowing convulsively to force down the shame and agony of this while a part of his mind recognizes that he should be unmoved by the act of feeding.

However, when the Queen slips away from Kylie, there is a worrisome, quiet moment, a lull, before the Queen gives a small chortle. "How delightful." Her haze shifts to the burly drones that accompany her. "Cut this one down."

McKay watches in mute horror as they pull Kylie down, manhandling her delicate body from where it is nestled into her private niche in the alcoves. He wants desperately to scream himself raw, to cry out, to rally against these monsters, yet he cannot. No. Their training precludes such outbursts, and the mental conditioning to subservience is too strong to fight, to break. Rodney cannot defy a Queen so openly. As such, he can only stare and shriek in his mind after her as the Wraith drag Kylie from the alcoves.

Sometimes, silent screams are worse than verbal ones.

xxxx

The drive is long and decidedly unkind to Sheppard as they ride down the mountain. Klutch drives as a woman possessed. She spares not a second as they move, accelerating through the turns and catching speed wherever possibly. Sheppard bounces in the back as the truck bounds over bumps and fallen debris, bucking in the snow wildly. And, yet, Klutch is the very image of cold composure, gripping the wheel with loose hands, even when forced to slip off the road to dart about abandoned vehicles and downed trees.

In time, however, when the sky is just blushing a pale dawn upon the horizon, she brings the truck to a grinding halt; Sheppard furrows his brow and asks, "What?"

Klutch shakes her head. "Nothing. Just…. nothing."

Sheppard roles, slowly and awkwardly onto his stomach to see and is taken back by the sight just beyond. Dawn's first golden rays spill over the mountains' lips and down into what would otherwise be a quaint, picturesque little hamlet. It is a soft, small grove beside a tiny, shimmering lake, wreathed by tiny little cabins. It is a campground of sorts, the perfect little place to spend long, somnolent summer weeks in peace. At least, it would be were it not for the abandoned, yet haphazardly armored trucks and bullet holes marring the adorable, tiny cottages. Smoke still rises from forgotten campfires, while fallen pistols and weapons gleam as they catch the dawn upon the ground where they have dropped. If there were anymore remaining, surely they would have come running by now, drawn by the racket of the truck's engine. In short, this is a camp either hastily spurned, or, in what is an exceedingly more likely scenario, one culled.

"Wraith," Sheppard hisses through his teeth with a sharp disdain. "We're too late."

Klutch shakes her head tersely and barks roughly, "No. McKay wouldn't go so easily."

Sheppard winces; it is still so very hard to imagine the McKay he knew as the McKay he now knows. Yet Klutch says nothing more, scrambling from the truck to dart about the frozen campgrounds. Sheppard watches her, holding his breath as she slips silently between the vehicles and cabins, yet no one comes for her, even when she knocks on the doors with a pale hand and calls out into the emptiness of this place. He tenses when she freezes on a dim and kneels. Sheppard bites his lip as the blonde prods at something in the snow and delicately, gingerly lifts it from the snow at her feet before turning and slowly returning to her truck. The blonde climbs back into the truck and sits in silence.

Finally, Sheppard breaks that silence. "What is it?"

Klutch breathes heavily and slowly, but the colonel can hear the forced constraint as she speaks. "We are too late."

"How can you know?" Sheppard demands, rolling his eyes. "Just five minutes ago, you were damned certain we weren't."

Klutch takes whatever it is she has found and hands it to Sheppard carefully. At first, he is surprised by the weight of it, the heft. Sheppard turns the thing over in his hands. It is a long, finely hewn blade that he knows all too well, having been held by it on more than one occasion. It is Ronon's blade, a dangerous looking thing that belongs firmly rested in the Satedan's boot. The blade has been blackened, either intentionally or by age, marked only by the crisp accents of engraved Wraith lettering. While Sheppard does not know how Ronon ever acquired such a weapon, he knows better than to think that Ronon would so carelessly lose it.

Sheppard contemplates the unusual token before breathing, "How'd you know?"

"About your friend?" Klutch asks oddly. "That it's his?"

The colonel swallows, suddenly dry mouthed and sobered by this revelation. "Yeah."

"No normal person would carry something like that, something of the Wraith. Not unless they earned it." She gives a simple, somber shrug. "He was a runner, wasn't he?" When Sheppard nods, Klutch goes on, her voice solemn and off putting, "It just…. it does things to you. It…. changes you. I could almost smell it on him."

She trailed off in a way of such finality that Sheppard had to say it. "You sound like you're giving up, like it is final."

"The Wraith got 'em." She shrugs. "You don't get much more final than that."

"You got away from them once," Sheppard implores with his voice. "You could do it again."

Klutch purses her lips together and looks down at her pale, delicate hands. "That took months of planning, and, even then, it was only with pure, dumb fucking luck."

The muscles of Sheppard's throat twist and constrict. He is not ready to face this certainty, this finality yet. After three years of searching and hoping in vain to find a way back to Earth, to find his friend, he is not prepared to lose everything all over again. Ronon, Rodney, Earth, hell, his leg. He is not ready to concede these things so lightly and casually, to mourn so simply and humbly. It is not in him, not even as cowed as he is now.

He swallows hard, forcing his dry mouth and adams apple to work. "They haven't gone far."

"No, they wouldn't," Klutch admits flatly. "Not when food is so scarce. They'll be combing these mountains for any sign of humans."

Sheppard nods slowly before asking, "You have a tracker in you, don't you?"

"Yeah," Klutch breathes, drawing up her sleeve to reveal something akin to the device that had been strapped to Kylie's wrist. "McKay bodgered this together to cloak the signal."

Sheppard draws a deep breath. It is hard for him to ask what he wants. No, it is near impossible. It is too great a thing, too large a favor to ask. She has already given him so very much, and, yet, he must ask for more. His guilt is quickly becoming a cumbersome thing, too hefty for one person to bear with any measure of grace or sanity, let alone the civility to know how to ask this.

"You could…." Sheppard swallows once more, his words thick and sticky as toffee. "You could draw the Wraith down with it. Bait them out."

Klutch's response is cold and distant, painfully noncommittal. "I could."

"And, then, you could recloak yourself. Like Kylie and Willem's little cat and mouse game?"

Klutch gives a quick nod. "I could."

"I could let them catch me." The words slip from his tongue as a pained breath.

"You could." Her shoulders appear tense and stiff to him, but she rubs her arms. "And, then what? Try to be the first one legged man in history to win an ass kicking contest?"

"I'll think of something."

"You'd better." Klutch sighs heavily as she once again climbs from the truck and opens the back door to Sheppard, glaring at him and pointing a stern finger at him. "Because, if you don't, and if the Wraith don't kill you first, I will."

Despite the cutting threat, she is gentle as she pries Sheppard from his resting place. Her hands are tender and caring, and she speaks soft utterances of compassion and reassurance as the colonel hobbles along at her side through the snow, moaning from the pain and grunting from the exertion. All the while, his mind turns over and over again how foolish this is, how downright suicidal. It is difficult enough for an able bodied man to survive an unarmed fight with even a weakened Wraith; how is he supposed to even dare to hope that he can find and rescue anyone from the Wraith?

Klutch says nothing, helping him to a clear spot a few feet from the truck before settling him down on a snowy, wooden bench. The wood creaks and groans beneath his weight, as though the thing is as tired and old as Sheppard feels. Yet there is something strangely grounding to it as Klutch leaves his side briefly to fetch a few things from the truck. When she returns, it is heavily armed, so much so that Sheppard can feel the bench sag beneath her beside him when she sits.

She slides a rifle into his hands. It is worn yet well loved, the stock polished to precision, the thing cleaned to perfection. Sheppard checks it carefully before accepting the pistol she offers as well, along with ammunition for both.

"Action's a little sticky on it, but it's better than nothing," the _skrae _announces, hunkering down.

The pair sits in silence for a long moment, watching as the sun rises a bit further above the ridge in the distance. Then, Klutch reaches to the device at her wrist and pokes at it. The screen goes blank, and she draws a shuddering breath. It is time. So exposed and broadcasting from the tracker lodged between her shoulders, they will be sitting ducks for the Wraith. Sure enough, the whine of a dart greets them within minutes of her deactivating McKay's creation.

Sheppard smiles oddly, looking over to her. "We've got their attention." When Klutch does not respond, does not flinch, he touches her shoulder, pressing, "You'd better be going now."

Klutch shakes her head as a single dart crests the mountains, swooping low over the barren trees. She says nothing, not with her voice, but her hand reaches down to take his. He understands; she cannot leave him, will not leave him to be taken by the Wraith. Sheppard squeezes her hand in a reassurance he does not feel right in offering. Klutch laughs a strange, haunting sort of death rattle in her throat as the dart skims low over the lake. Sheppard's heart thunders in his ears, drowning out even the racket of the dart on approach. Their hand hold turns to a white knuckled death grip even as the radiant white of the culling beam sweeps over them.

Then, there is nothing.

xxxx

When the nothing dispels and the world congeals again into something tangible, something real, the campgrounds are gone. The blushing pinks and flashing golds of dawn are replaced, instead, by the dank, deep and fleshy purples and reds that Sheppard knows all too well, highlighted only by the sharp, caustic and electric greens of an advanced technology that defies all logic. Gone are the barren trees in favor of sickly tendrils of organic conduit clinging to the structures about them. It is a Wraith hive ship.

The only thing of that place in the mountains that persists is the deathly grip upon Sheppard's hand. Klutch. She clings to him, her body still and stock stiff to resist the trembles that threaten to quake through her muscles. Klutch is afraid, yet she does not show it, a feat which is admirable in its own right considering that they are not alone.

The stillness and perfection to the situation lingers for less than a second before both Klutch and Sheppard are in motion. They are a smooth concert of motion, swift and diligent. Klutch's skill and innate knowledge of battle surprises Sheppard. He has exceptional aim, as does she. He fires head on into the fray, while she ducks and swoops over him, compensating for where Sheppard cannot turn swiftly enough. She shoves him out of the way from the stray, ozone steaks of Wraith stunner blasts. They fall several Wraith; yet there are too many Wraith and too few bullets between them.

It seems but a mere heartbeat passes between before Sheppard's ears are met by the harsh click of dry fire and is forced to discard the pistol in favor of the rifle. The rifle packs a sound heft in his hands. It is somehow reassuring to know that, when the few rounds in that weapon run out, he will at least have a club to bear.

A stifled gasp jerks Sheppard's attention in time to see Klutch's body jerk, engulfed in a red, electric flare. She falls, limp and lifeless to the ground beside him in a crumpled heap. Yet her eyes are wide and flashing with rage even before the second bolt of Wraith fire steals even that away.

"Klutch!"

When the next bolt catches Sheppard and takes his breath, his sight, and his entire world away, it is no surprise.

xxxx

Heavy, booted footsteps rouse the captives to full alertness once more before the Wraith step fully into the alcoves, dragging something behind them. Ronon jerks upright against the coils that hold him still, eager to not only show that he is not weak nor cowed by this as well as to see what new surprises those beasts have in store. He narrows his eyes, glaring as the drones come, hauling a single, limp body behind them. The Satedan grits his teeth, steeling himself, yet the Wraith seemed unconcerned by him and the other captives, focusing instead on their human cargo as they bind and cage yet another wayward soul in the alcoves across from McKay and Ronon.

There is movement to his side; McKay stirs. The physicist moves in slow, robotic actions, but they do not hide the truth from Ronon. The Satedan sees the anger flashing through McKay's eyes, the inner wildcat fighting viciously.

When the Wraith leave them once more, Ronon finally spies what has driven Rodney so feral. The pale, scrawny form dangling across from them is none other than Klutch. Her features are still and slack in unconsciousness, yet there is not a mark upon her. She is merely stunned. Ronon furrows his brow. Klutch is supposed to be with Sheppard, safe and sound and escorting her people back to Colorado and off of this desolate world.

Ronon glances to Rodney at his side, who only shakes his head; even Todd seems bothered by Klutch's presence and condition. It is a worrying sign. They wait in uneasy silence, shifting their weights uncomfortably and watching her for any sign o. It is the only thing they can do, granted their situation.

In time, Klutch stirs. The nimble little _skrae _awakes without moving; instead, she wakes with a flexing and contraction of her muscles, rousing herself and forcing her body to alertness and readiness. Rodney's attention pricks to her instantly, recognizing the signs instantly. However, he waits for her to prop herself up and survey the situation before saying anything. Her eyes rove the organic structure about them, studying it intently, yet there is no fear, no horror nor recoil.

"Klutch…." McKay breathes, his voice the barest shade of a whisper.

She turns to him, her crisp, blue eyes finding him with sorrowed, infinite depths; there is relief in her tone. "McKay." The blonde shifts her weight, her eyes flickering about. "Kylie?"

He shakes his head and asks, "Sheppard?"

Klutch shakes her head, and McKay's heart breaks a little. It is indeed a troubling sign.

xxxx

The Queen is pleased.

It is often difficult to tell the true emotions of any Wraith, let alone a Queen. They are a careful and cautious species, valuing actions and deeds over emotion and relations. Their lives are a guarded masquerade. And, yet, any fool could see the pleasure in this particular specimen, nearly rolling off of her in waves.

The Queen moves slowly and deliberately, rounding her prize; the infamous John Sheppard. He is battered and broken, sorely disabled by a leg that has been mysteriously lopped off, yet it can be no other. To the Wraith, all humans appear as an equal muddle of food, just as cattle to must to humans. However, John Sheppard is unique among humans, singular onto his own. His face and name herald extreme notoriety to the Wraith, whispered in secret circles as a horror of myth. No Wraith could mistake the face of John Sheppard when faced with him.

Her drones have brought him to her, dropping the slowly stirring human at her feet. She kneels at his side, savoring this victory, no matter how chance of an encounter it may have been. She strokes his delicate human jaw line, drinking in the feeling of the fragility of the internal calcium carbonate skeleton of the human.

The human male rouses slowly from the stunner blast, blinking owlishly as he does. The Queen's thin lips curl at the edges to watch the human wake, his eyes glazed with a thick disorientation. Sheppard swallows convulsively and looks up, his curiously colored eyes finally meeting the Wraith towering over him. He swears in crude, human profanity, a choppy, monosyllabic display of displeasure that only further tickles the Queen's delight.

She sneers into his face, "Welcome, John Sheppard."

The colonel jerks to full alertness, twisting under the Queen and scrambling away from her. There are very few things in this life that John hates perhaps as much as waking up to the sight of a Wraith – any Wraith, let alone a Queen. This Queen, in particular, is tall among Queens, with the same, shrewd, angular features as any of her kind. Her hair is rich and scarlet, wreathing her face and cascading down in long locks, like dripping, crisp arterial blood. Those crimson strands contrast sharply against her pearly white gown and pale, slick, shining skin.

She sneers, drawing close to him. Sheppard recoils instinctively, but the Queen reaches out and latches an impossibly strong hand upon his wrist in a motion so fast it is but a blur to his human eyes. He loathes being so close to a Wraith, to feel their touch upon him. The feeding slit on her wrist crawls and writhes against his skin, turning his stomach. And the stench! The Wraith are cleanly as a species, much like cockroaches, but beneath that lingers something else, something vile and repulsive. The Wraith have an entirely unique, cloying scent to them, something skin to the sickly sweet stench of tissue necrosis. A distant part of Sheppard's mind recognizes numbly that it is likely a natural, survival reaction as a prey animal to smell the stink of eminent death upon a predator such as the Wraith.

The Queen can smell his fear, tasting it and drinking it in as a fine, delectable wine as she grins haughtily in his face. "You shall make my most treasured trophy. The great John Sheppard of the Lanteans, brought to kneel before me." The Queen closes her eyes dreamily for but a moment before fixing him in her predatory gaze. "I shall drink of you daily." She jerks upright, shoving him down against the clammy, cold floor. "Take him down to the alcoves. Have him cleaned and properly attired for court." The Queen deigns to flicker a disdainful glance of her golden, feral eyes to Sheppard. "He_ stinks_ of human."

xxxx

Down and down, they drag the colonel, deeper into the hive than John Sheppard has ever been. They haul his by his arms as he kicks and twists against them, digging his heels futilely into a floor that offers no purchase, worn butter smooth by the tread of countless drones. The well muscled drones have little troubles hauling the mere human along by his arms. They pay his meager struggles not the merest of attention, silent and impassive beneath the chitin plates of facial armoring as they pull Sheppard along.

Down in the very bowels of the hive, they dump Sheppard in a cloistered chamber. The air clings to him, oppressively hot and humid, so much so that it is difficult to breath. It is dim there, lit only in columns of pale purple hues that shine over sunken wells into the tissue of the hive. Dark water pools in those rounded depressions, a communal bath of some form. Sheppard snorts to himself in mockery and disgust; he never imagined the Wraith as a species fixated on hygiene.

The drones, however, hardly seem to notice as they begin to strip him down; Sheppard kicks and growls, "Hey! No play on the first date!"

The drones say nothing more as they tear the last of the clothes Klutch clothed him in and dump him into one of the pools. He gasps in shock. Despite the cloying heat, the water is frigid, achingly cold. One of the drones gives a tiny chortle beneath his mask as they step away. Sheppard blinks in confusion and scrambles to climb from the well, yet a hand clamps down upon his wrist. He turns in fright and gasps at the familiar face in the shadows.

"Jacob!"

The boy emerges fully from the shadows that shroud him, his face solemn and sorely bruised. His eyes are cold and sorrowed. Yet it is the same whelp of a child that Sheppard knew just a short time ago in Foothold, the same child he had delighted with stories of Pegasus and Atlantis. He is wide eyed and terrified, yes, but, to Sheppard's excitement, he appears otherwise uninjured.

The colonel glances to the Wraith at his side and drops his voice to a whisper. "Jacob, what happened?"

"The Wraith."

"They culled Foothold?" he asks, his heart trembling with fear.

The boy nods, a tear slipping down his cheek. "Yeah…" The Wraith glare in his direction, and Jacob snaps to, stuffing a variety of what appears to be cleaning implements and soaps in Sheppard's numb hands, muttering, "'M supposed to be working."

Sheppard nods and takes the proffered items without actually looking at them, more concerned with showing the Wraith that they are making an attempt to obey as he leans close. "How?" Sheppard's blood runs cold in his veins, as ice water as Jacob looks down. "How did they find the mine?"

Jacob's face scrunches, tightly holding back the tears that threaten to spill forth. "I don't know." He purses his lips together. "I'm scared."

The boy has every right to be frightened, and Sheppard knows this. McKay and Klutch had sounded insane with their rants and theories on a spy, a traitor among them, yet there can be no denying it now. There is a spy somewhere between the camps, slowly filtering information to the Wraith about the whereabouts of humans, of food. Otherwise, the Wraith would never have found anyone nestled so deeply below ground as to mask both their body heat and their vital signs. No tracking or searching devices could penetrate that deep into solid rock riddled with various ores that would scramble any results anyway.

Sheppard nods and puts a shaking hand on the boy's shoulder. "I know. Me, too." He licks his lips. "But I'm going to get us out of here."

He cannot offer more. Sheppard will not offer what he cannot guarantee, and that includes any sense of safety or security beyond fleeing the hive. Until the traitor is found, flushed out, and dealt with, there can be no safety for any of them. Yet, it could be any one of them, any of them was capable. So many lies have been bandied about, and so many relationships have been merely an elaborate act, like the supposed hatred brewing between McKay and Klutch. It is no wonder that a viper should be nestled so neatly and so unseen among them.

The Wraith hear them and begin to stomp over; Jacob draws a breath and asks before they can storm them and blurts out, "Promise?"

"I do," Sheppard assures him.

Jacob's lips quiver as the Wraith bark orders back and forth; he murmurs, "McKay said you always keep your promises."

"I do," Sheppard quickly affirms. As wide, broad hands clamp down on the colonel, he nods and shouts while they drag him from the pool, "I promise!"

xxxx

In time, the Wraith come to pull Ronon, Rodney, and Klutch down from the alcoves. No longer supported by the organic tendrils of the hive, Rodney crashes down to his knees. Rodney's shoulders and arms flare with white hot pain as his arms hang loosely and the blood pumps down to the tips of his fingers. He hugs his arms close to his chest, as much as they will move granted the prior strain, savoring the exquisite agony that throbs down his limbs with each beat of his heart as the welcome sign that there is no lasting nerve damage from the suspension. He will be sore for hours, yes, but, from the pin-prick pains that flicker and fade, dancing across his fingers, Rodney knows he will maintain most, if not all of the range of motion of his shoulders.

McKay savors the monetary respite before one of the Wraith jabs him viciously with a stunner between his shoulder blades. He grits his teeth without allowing the action to show through his facial features, and forces himself upwards. Carefully, McKay clambers to his feet as war rages in the back of his mind. His logical mind demands that he fights, that he digs his heels in and pulls the wire tight, defy in any manner, but obeisance is too richly steeped into his limbic system. He forces himself upright, swallowing his stubborn pride convulsively, swaying as his mind goes blank for just a moment and his vision fades from the sudden motion after so long in such stillness.

It does not escape Rodney's notice that, while the Wraith free Klutch and Ronon of their bonds along with him, Todd is left to hang. Todd lifts feral, golden eyes to meet Rodney's gaze. The captive Wraith dips his head ever so slightly, a small inclination to suggest that this is to be expected. The physicist wonders, idly, how long Todd can hang there. Human respiratory musculature will begin to spasm and fully fail within three days of suspension; yet, there is no telling if the Wraith have anything resembling a human respiratory system let alone the basic intercostal musculature to stress to the point of failure granted their insect based evolutionary path.

The Wraith herd them down and deeper into the hive with a series of quite pointed jabs and shoves. Klutch and Rodney move docilely at their gesture, their minds and bodies paralyzed by their prior training to do anything but comply. Ronon fights and garners only severely rather cruel blows. Rodney knows it is pointless to argue against such defiance, for Ronon will never so easily submit to the Wraith, no matter the circumstances. He also knows it is pointless to fight at the moment anyway, for he has walked these paths several times before. The Wraith are merely taking them down to the pens for further storage, not to their deaths.

It is when they reach the feeding pens, however, that Rodney blinks; they are not the only human captives here. He looks about wildly and uncertainly. For there, to his right, is the silver-haired Amerie, along with Sulley. Eric, Jonas, and Travis lurk closely as well, as though huddling and herding together for safety like skittish colts. Upon further inspection, it seems the entire population of Foothold is there.

The Wraith shove Ronon, Rodney, and Klutch into the feeding pen with these cowering others. Yet, as soon as the organic webbing of their prison slams down, that fear melts and gives way to aggression. It is primal and illogical, and it is entirely directed at Klutch. They rush with their rage before McKay or Ronon can make any defensive move to assist her. They hurl cruel and cutting insults, spitting profanities as they charge and lash out.

"Worthless bitch!"

"Fucking traitor!"

"She did this!"

"Slut!"

"Cunt!"

They strike with wild abandon. They are the Bacchante, driven wild with bloodlust by the offering of this small morsel of a sacrifice to stay their suffering ever so slightly. They kick, punch, and snap their jaws in the air. They are wolves, feral as they circle their prey. Yet, Klutch is not so defenseless to cave without a fight. She is swift and lean, tucking low and moving with deliberate strikes to incapacitate without damaging.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Knock it off!" Rodney bellows over the shouts and cries for blood, but his words are swiftly drowned out.

"Little bitch!"

He pushes against them and watches in horror as their sheer numbers overpower Klutch. She sinks below the bobbing heads and swinging fists, as a swimmer sucked down by the undertoe. She never screams; McKay knows she never will. The physicist grits his teeth and pushes through them, parting the others by force until he reaches her, still throwing punches and fighting even when taken down.

"STOP IT!" McKay screams over them, his voice roughened by rage at the senselessness to all this.

"This is all her fault!" Amerie shrieks at the top of her lungs, a shrill sound that cuts the air and down to the marrow. The old woman surprises McKay by spitting – actually spitting – directly on Klutch's face and snarling, "That little traitor sold us out to the Wraith just like she did before!"

"No!" McKay growls, hunching low over his fallen _skrae_. "Klutch would _never _do that!"

"She's betrayed us before!" Eric argues sharply.

"She NEVER did!" McKay snaps, his eyes wide with exasperation; it is a wild, furious side of the physicist that Ronon has not seen in some years, that brings a small measure of comfort to know that the old McKay lives on in this newly forged warrior. He narrows his eyes and hisses, "She would never help them. She hates the Wraith more than you could ever know."

"How can you know that?" Sulley blasts him. The hunter jabs a finger in the direction of Klutch and her tattoos. "She's one of the Wraith's little pets." He faces McKay, his expression dark. "How can you know she hasn't been lying to you this whole time?"

Something breaks in Rodney, so much so that Ronon can spy it from where he stands beyond the ring of strangers and fellow captives. The tension to the physicist winds and snaps, leaving him somehow hollowed. The ferocity cracks and falls away, leaving Rodney's features softened and serene. There is an understanding there, somehow, a knowing to his eyes. McKay licks his lips and nods, slowly, gazing into nothing. His fingers twitch at his side.

"Klutch," McKay murmurs, his voice hazy and thick. "Klutch is not like that. I just…. I know."

"How could you know that?" Eric growls bitterly.

Ronon sees the discomfort written so plainly upon McKay's features, poorly masked at best. This is difficult for the physicist, Ronon knows now, for this approaches a painful line drawn in the sand ages ago out of absolute necessity for survival. Ronon understands; coming to Atlantis so very long ago had been crossing his own line, plunging into an uncertain world that honestly frightened him in the wake of so many years on the run.

McKay's fingers twitch once more, shaking slightly as his hand lifts to the collar of his shirt. Ronon eyes him cautiously, but McKay shakes his head tersely. He has come this far, so much further than imaginable and after so much, that it should be a trifling thing to face the risk of human ire, and, yet, it feels as an immeasurable weight upon him, bearing down and dragging him into the mire. McKay and the others, they have lived too many lies for too long to have garnered any small trust, likely very deserving of whatever justice these survivors choose to mete out, yet he must. For Klutch, McKay must.

He draws the collar of his shirt down to expose his upper chest. Just a small triangle of it, the same bit of pallid flesh McKay presented Ronon with, marked by dark, odious tattoos that swirl and twist away before knotting together once more. The people of Foothold take a collective breath and step back reflexively. They know those tattoos that mar McKay's skin, the marks of the Wraith. The color drains from the face of many, as others spit profanities.

McKay bears it unyieldingly, whispering, "I know Klutch wouldn't do it, because I know Klutch better than anyone."

Amerie steps forward swiftly, with a mother's determination. Her hand moves in a flash, swinging through the air before striking McKay hard. She purposefully slaps him across the face once, then twice. The old woman trembles in her rage and turns away, unable to face the man before her.

The physicist turned _skrae _stares numbly and silently at Amerie's back for a long moment before speaking."I deserved that," McKay utters simply and sadly, his voice strained by the emotion. "I know. I lied to you." He looks to the people fathered before him and shakes his head. "But you've got to know. We did it to survive. We just…. we just wanted to live."

There is a desperation to his voice. He is pleading, begging with them to just understand, to be somehow alright with this. And, yet, even as McKay stands there, his eyes wide and glossy, the people turn on him. Slowly, they turn their backs to him, some swearing and muttering, others just glaring. They spurn him, one by one. Rodney just nods to himself slowly; he deserves their scorn. He tells himself that over and over again, reminding himself that something this expected should not hurt as much as it does, should not cut nearly as deep.

His lips move of their own accord. "I'm sorry."

The apology goes unaccepted as the people who had once been his own abandon him to the far reaches of the feeding pen. McKay's mouth quivers, his lips bobbing in unspoken words. A less trained individual might not see, but Ronon can almost hear the soundless apologies spilling from his mouth. He is begging without sound, without spoken words, pleading for a forgiveness he does not deserve.

"McKay," Klutch breathes softly, her voice tired and weathered with a masculine edge in her exhaustion as she graces his arm with the faintest of touches. "Let them go." She narrows her eyes. "They're not worth the trouble." The hunter rises slowly, groaning as she does from the effort. "They're not worth _anything_."

The physicist looks down and shakes his head. "No, Klutch. Life is always worth it. No matter who it belongs to."

A part of Ronon is impressed. The old Rodney McKay would never have been caught dead speaking such words. And, yet, it somehow feels wrong.

The Satedan says nothing as the two _skrae _slip away to the side, close enough that their shoulders brush as they move. McKay hangs his head in what might be shame or sorrow, while Klutch holds her head high in defiance against their fellow earthlings that have cast them out when they should be banding together. This is all wrong, and Ronon can do nothing to stop it. Ronon shakes his head; he has always been under the impression that earthlings were not this petty and pathetic.

xxxx

By the time the Wraith have Sheppard wrestled into clothes, his body shakes with exhaustion, and he acquiesces to their will for now. Fighting, it seems, is nothing short of a futile waste of energy when so badly outnumbered by guards in far superior physical condition. Once he acknowledges this, he lets them dress him, regardless of how completely humiliating it is.

They dress him in strange clothes. The Wraith do not favor plant based textiles in their garments, a fact which, in Sheppard's retrospect, should have been common sense granted nomadic hunting patterns that leave no time for the demands of agriculture. Instead, the garb consists primarily of a variety of animal products. The crude pant and shirt undergarments are a dark leather of some kind, tanned to a buttery and velveteen softness. Above that, there is an ebony coat with simple toggles that close up to Sheppard's neck, long sleeve that cuff at his wrists, and a deep hem that hangs to just below Sheppard's knee. The leather is still and heavy, warm and protective as armor. The material is richer than the coarsely woven hair and hide based textiles of the attire granted to worshipers, forcing Sheppard to wonder the vile possibility that this is the quality of clothes offered to perhaps those oh so rare of creatures; the _skrae_.

The drones haul him up by his armpits. Sheppard wants to argue, to blast them with some witty, sarcastic remark, but he is thoroughly drained. It frustrates the soldier in him immensely. He has hardly even begun to recover mentally and physically from both the infection and the butchery of his leg; Sheppard knows this in his logical mind. Still, granted the severity of the situation and his own stubborn pride, the colonel feels he should at least be able to muster some snide commentary against the Wraith. Disappointingly, his mind and tongue are numbed by exhaustion.

The Wraith bring him back up to the Queen's chambers. He shudders to himself; Sheppard had been half-heartedly hoping to curl up on himself and sleep somewhere, just rest for a little while, just long enough to regain his strength and vigor. The drones hurl him to the center of the room where he sprawls out, a tasty morsel tossed to a hungry predator.

Sheppard lies there for a moment before gathering himself, wrapping his arms about himself. He does not like to feel so helpless and defenseless amid the Wraith. Somewhere in the dark, the Queen chuckles to herself at the sight, a haughty, trilling sound that chills down to the bone.

"Welcome, my pet."

The Queen slips from the shadows and into the light, circling him as a hawk on the wing. His muscles tighten and clench defensively at the sight. The Queen sneers, a vicious, cold and calculating quirk of her lips that speaks infinite volumes of horrors to him. She reaches down, her hand achingly tender as her long, bony fingers stroke his cheek in a macabre mockery of tenderness that turns his stomach.

The Queen strolls about him, purposely revolving about the axis of John Sheppard. He loathes this play, this dance of theirs. He has been in this place several times before. However, that had always been by the mental force of the Queen dragging his body into a submission his mind would never willfully yield, while now, he has not the mental nor physical fortitude to even bother fighting. That fact does not change how he hates this, the Queen toying with him so.

She gestures with a flicker of her wrist to a chair, grand and towering as a throne of Wraith structure so dark and red it appears as piled viscera and not anything at all furniture like. "Come, here." The Queen eases herself down into the throne with an elegant grace, curling her finger in a beckoning gesture. "I shall relish having you kneeling at my side." When Sheppard does not show any inclination of bending to her will, the Queen narrows her gaze. "That was not an invitation."

Impossibly, he smirks. "I'm quite fine over here."

The Queen glares bitterly, her eyes gleaming bitter amber gold that distantly and almost incongruously reminds Sheppard of aspen leaves caught in a frozen glaze. There is a sharpness to the color that defies accurate description. Even from his distance, Sheppard can see those alien pupils dilate and contract sharply amid the metallic array as the Queen measures her steadily building irritation with the human.

"Do not try my patience, Lantean." The Queen tilts her head in annoyance. "Come here."

Sheppard does not move. Even if he actually wanted to, he is too spent to drag himself across the floor to the Wraith's side. He drops his head and stares quite intently at a small patch of the floor, at the swollen blotches of bruised coloration to the smoothly hewn floor. The Queen sighs heavily and gestures to her personal guards. The drones haul Sheppard across the floor and drop him at the Queen's feet.

"Much better." She leans close, snatching the colonel by his chin and dragging his jaw up to face her. "You will behave yourself and hold that insolent tongue of yours, or I shall cut it from you." When Sheppard shakes his head at her, gritting his teeth, the Queen states emotionlessly, "It is not a fatal injury to your species, so do not think that I will be hesitant to rip the thing from your mouth."

The Queen drops her prize to the ground in a crumpled heap, and a drone clamps a secure shackle about the colonel's remaining ankle. Sheppard's heart contracts sharply at the act, at how weak and pathetic it makes him appear, while his rational mind pipes up at how truthful the impression is granted the agony flaring through his body from the physical demands of that day. It is fortunate then, that the Queen largely ignores the man curled up at her feet as he drifts and the darkness of exhaustion and slumber takes him finally both by surprise and by force.

He does not dream; it is a small and fleeting mercy.

Sheppard wakes only when the floor quivers beneath him at the behest of many feet, all thundering in one direction – his. He starts at the commotion, twitching away from the open expanse of the Queen's great hall, only to brush against the Queen's leg. The Queen makes a soft sound at his fright, something akin to a haughty little chortle, lodged deep within and reverberating against her dermal skeleton. Yet, there is disquiet to her eyes, something subtle and lingering beneath her expression, betraying her otherwise composed exterior.

He licks his lips and steels himself for whatever is to come through the doors on the far side of the room as the doors are thrown open, yet he cannot prepare himself for what comes. Not ever. His heart breaks, ripping asunder at the sight of the stranger who strides in ahead of a sizeable cohort of high ranking drones. The drones flank three Queens, but Sheppard has no eyes for them, only for the hideous sight of the creature who leads them.

She stands taller than Sheppard has ever seen, holding her head high upon her neck with pride, yet slightly down tipped in what seems ample respect for the Wraith about her. Her raven dark hair is longer than before, plaited elegantly close to her scalp where Sheppard knows some sort of extension has been added and concealed neatly in the knot work. The tattoos that mar the alabaster face are different, altered somehow to fit a new pattern. The attire upon her is neater than he has ever seen her in, tailored from the Wraith leather to fit her form in a knee length coat that conforms perfectly to the slender, lithe shape of her upper body before swelling outwards slightly at the hips as though cinched and corseted about her tiny waist. The coat is done up to her neck, lending a taller, elegant and regal appearance.

"Kylie," he croaks, his voice still muddled.

The Queen ignores him and purrs in a gentle beckon, "Come."

When the _skrae _kneels and bows deeply before the Queen – _her _Queen – he knows, and it is worse than a punch right to the gut. It is Kylie, pressing her forehead to the floor at the Queen's feet. It has always been Kylie. She is their traitor, and Rodney has been nursing the little viper this entire time. The _skrae _slips aside with a practiced grace, but Sheppard cannot help but glare. Even as the Queen speaks over him and presents her prize to the other rather envious Queens, he does not hear her words. Instead, he feels only his rage boiling over as he continues to stare at the expressionless _skrae_.

He stares, his eyes scoring the promise of a hundred thousand terrible deaths for Kylie, but she hardly seems to notice, hardly seems to care. And why should she? For Sheppard knows the truth now that he sees it so plainly laid before him; Kylie has won.

**XXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXX**

**Author's Notes : **Yay! Sorry I've been getting a bit behind in everything. But, I have a good reason for it….. I will have a new, harsh, and expensive mistress in the fall. Her name? Rutgers, NJ. So, until then, I'm going to keep forging ahead with all my stories in an attempt to pretty much wrap up all the long running stories so I can switch to either one shots, or more episodic pieces as compared to these novels. You won't be shortchanged, I swear, since more of these pieces are near their climax and resolution anyway.


End file.
